


and this is the wonder (that's keeping the stars apart)

by intertwingular



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: ...might have forgotten to tag everybody in this but w/e, Alternate Universe - Avatar & Benders Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Two Parter, Viktuuri Big Bang 2017, companion art available, honestly this thing is long???longer than i expected, there's a happy ending though so don't worry?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-02 02:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11499993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intertwingular/pseuds/intertwingular
Summary: " here is the deepest secret that nobody knows ( here is the root of the root, the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than soul can hope, or mind can hide ) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart - i carry your heart ( i carry it in my heart ) " - e.e. cummings, i carry your heart ( i carry it in my heart )viktor nikiforov, son, warrior, and now, ambassador finds that peace is harder than war - the war sings through his blood, his bones, his mind; never quiet, never silent, a constant scream in the back of his mind. katsuki yuuri, son, outcast, prince, finds that quiet and secrets are hard to keep, when you encounter someone so determined to draw them out.





	1. part i. quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> _aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa_ holy shit you guys. about half a year ago (and wow, isn't _that_ quite some time) i signed up for the viktuuri reverse bang - and paired up with the lovely yinseii, who drew all the art you'll see for this fic! 
> 
> note that this is, in fact, part one of two chapters - i split it due to length - and note the warnings in the tags. 
> 
> enjoy!

**part i. quiet.**

**APRIL 28TH, XX15. BORDERLANDS, SOUTH OF SANKT PYOTR, NORTHERN WATER TRIBE.**

 

The air is thick and noxious as men and women alike choke on the ash and cloying sulfur that dyes the snow an ugly black, and skies a stormy grey, Viktor lets the wind whip his hair into a frenzy. It’s so much shorter now, and even though years have passed since he cut his hair upon taking the mantle of a warrior from his father, Viktor’s hand strays to the shorn ends.

The war horn bellows, low and menacing, like a hot knife cleaving through tension and still air. Viktor holds out a hand to halt the men and women behind him, and lets water pour from beneath the ice, swirling around him in a ribbon. It’s an old friend, the water, and as the whip curls around his hand, barely touching him, Viktor lets out a breath.

The scent of sulfur and ash is stronger now, and the ice itself shudders the closer the firebenders come.

The water whip ices over around Viktor, forming jagged points and serrated edges. _A little closer,_ he signals. _Moments away._

* * *

This is true: the Fire Nation has been at war with the Water Tribe for centuries. No one alive can remember why; not the son of the man who began the war, nor his grandson. But the war continues on, despite that fact that the drive for war is long gone, and all that remains is weariness and a never ending cycle of hate and sorrow. Women and men have their loved ones sent home to them in urns, in pieces, or not at all, if there is nothing left to send home. Mothers mourn sons, fathers their daughters.

This is true: Viktor Nikiforov was raised for war. A clan of warriors, and a duty to protect the Northern Water Tribe come hell or high water, passed on from father to son, to the son of the son. Viktor Nikiforov does not forget. Viktor Nikiforov cannot forget.

This is true: He is fourteen the first time he fells a man with his sword. The blood runs more red than anything Viktor has ever seen, red enough to rival the color of the flames the firebenders wield. He is sixteen when his father dies at the hands of a Fire Nation general. As Viktor wraps his father’s furs around him, not even an hour after the man’s death, he thinks, _at least the man went down with him._

This is true: On his twentieth year, the war ends with the death of the Fire Lord.

* * *

**NOVEMBER 28TH, XX03. HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

 

“Are you excited?” Mari asks, tugging Yuuri along as she bounces through the hallways. “You get to bend with me today!”

Yuuri nods, still clutching onto the hem of her tunic. Grandfather’s voice, dusty and harsh still echoes in his ears, a never ending mantra of _“I will hear pleasing results after today, will I not, Yuurihito?”_ Yuuri finds that he doesn’t want to displease Grandfather.

“Yeah,” he murmurs instead, smiling at Mari. Her eyes are glittering bright, excited and child-like, even though Yuuri _knows_ they’re both big kids now. “What’s it like?”

Mari purses her lips, hems and haws for a few moments, before shrugging. “It’s...nice. Like, you weren’t...full before and now you are.” She shakes her head, displacing the previously neat bun Mama tied atop her head beforehand. “I dunno, Yuuri. I’ll find a better way to tell you one day.” She pushes open the larger wooden doors to the training hall, shooing him inside. “C’mon. Let’s get started, ‘kay?”

Yuuri nods, something in his stomach fluttering anxiously, and cups his hands, mimicking Mari’s stance. Fire is already blooming from Mari’s fingertips, bright as a star in the night, and Yuuri closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of ozone and burning. There’s a pull in his gut - like Papa had said there would be - and Yuuri opens his eyes.

Water blossoms, delicate and glistening, where there should be fire, in between Yuuri’s cupped palms, and horror burgeons in his chest. Mari lets out a strangled cry, and the fire bouncing from her fingertips goes out with an ozone-scented _pop._ < /p>

The ball of water bursts, but not a single droplet wets the cotton of Yuuri’s robes. It scatters around him, past his ears, dripping through the cracks of his fingers, and soaking into the stone of the practice hall.

It’s _wet_. Moisture clings to his fingers, drips from his hair - and this, while nothing new, feels impossibly foreign. Yuuri had always known that he would be a firebender - like Mari and Father, Grandfather and Great-Grandmother Suki. But this, _this_ isn’t fire. Heat isn’t curling above his palm, licking, smooth and sandpaper-like, just as Mari claims it feels. The water is cold, freezing the nerves in his fingertips, turning them red with the chill.

_This is a dream._

Yuuri pinches himself. It smarts, and the parting marks are red and raised when he draws his hands away from his arm. _It’s not a dream._

He meets Mari’s eyes, and wonders if she’s scared of him now, because they’re children of the Fire Nation; worse still, they are the prince and princess of it, and they know, more so than anyone, how dangerous waterbenders are. _It was an accident!_ He wants to say. _I didn’t want it to be like this. I didn’t_ ask _for this._

Mari’s eyes are wide; watery and terrified - she remembers all too well the incident that killed General Nishigori, and orphaned Takeshi in the process.

_Don’t scream. Please don’t scream._

But Mari is only twelve, and Yuuri is only eight, and they are still _children._ She isn’t disciplined, hasn’t yet been molded into a proper Heir, and Yuuri knows that she, more than he, is scared.

Mari lets out a bloodcurdling shriek, and Yuuri curls his body into itself, hiding his wet hands as the sound of footsteps clattering across cobbled floors creeps closer and closer.

* * *

This is true: Katsuki Yuurihito, while a prince in birthright, is the spare to his sister’s Heir. He was not raised to burn as bright as she, did not speak loudly amongst men twice his age, and in truth, rarely spoke at all. He was a shadow in his sister’s light, although his parents had hopes that he, in turn, would come to shine as bright as she.

This is true: When he is eight, Yuuri bends for the first time, surrounded by cobblestone floors and rich, crimson walls. His sister is nearby, and she is excited. His parents linger in the throne room, distracted and thinking of their children. They all expect fire.

This is true: Yuuri is the disappointment; the failure to his sister’s success. No, more than that; a disgrace. More than mere shame - he is the living embodiment of what a prince of the fire nation should not be, born out of the element of the enemy. He is unnatural. He is a monster.

This is true: At eight years old, Katsuki Yuuri dons a veil, and hides himself behind layers of silk, cotton and cloth, and begins to live a lie for his kingdom and people. When his people want fire and approachable warmth, they will look for his sister. His unmanageable chill will ward them away, and with him, they will find no solace.

This is true: On paper, the Fire Lord has two children; the eldest a daughter, bright and tenacious, the embodiment of flame, who burns brighter than a dying star - and the younger a son, quiet and mysterious, with a countenance colder than the ice from far North. No siblings have ever been quite so different, but they are the children of the Fire Lord, even if, it may seem as if one does not quite belong.

This is true: The Fire Lord has one child; a daughter, bright and tenacious, the embodiment of flame, who burns brighter than a dying star.

* * *

**APRIL 28TH, XX15. BORDERLANDS SOUTH OF SANKT PYOTR, NORTHERN WATER TRIBE.**

 

The firebenders are upon them. Behind him, beside him, on the ground, burnt and dying - Viktor’s comrades are all around him, fighting for their tribe and their freedom. He grits his teeth and pushes _harder_ against the soldier advancing on him. Viktor cannot let the Fire Nation take the Northern Water Tribe. She is brilliant under the sunlight though, and Viktor catches a glimpse of her curling spires as they glitter silver beneath the sun. _A place like this deserves to be protected,_ Viktor thinks. _The people who can love and call this place home deserve to live._

A soldier goes down with two of her comrades in a heap, a shard of ice protruding from her stomach. The other two are unconscious, knocked out from the impact of their helmeted heads colliding with the ice. The soldier’s blood spider webs through cracks in the ice, fading to a pink as it slips away. Viktor tears himself away from her prone, cooling body and pushes forwards.

The general must be nearby. The heat grows stronger and stronger the further into the crowd Viktor gets, and he grits his teeth as a bolt of ruby flames whistles past his ear, singeing hair as it goes. It hits someone, and Viktor can hear a panicked, pained cry echo through the battlefield. < /p>

He slams his elbow into the face of a nearby firebender and keeps running, carving a path through the battlefield. _Closer, closer_ \- the heat grows ever more unbearable, ribbons of flames spinning around a man, molten tongues reaching out to devour any waterbenders that are trying to get close.

Viktor reaches for the sword sheathed across his back - a family heirloom, passed onto him on his father’s deathbed - and unsheathing it, lets the midday sun dance along the carefully polished blade.

The general turns to look at him - he cannot be older than Viktor, and that, in and of itself, is jarring. His skin is cacao dark, so unlike the other firebenders Viktor has seen, and his eyes glitter from behind the shorn fringe of his bangs. The ribbon-like flames flick around him, challenging, mocking. The air smells of ozone, and it feels as if the world has slowed.

Viktor has never been one to back down from a challenge. His lip curls, and with a flick of the wrist, he brandishes his water whip in response.

(if the general looks apprehensive - well. it’s just a trick of the light, nothing more, nothing less.)

* * *

**APRIL 1ST, XX15. HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

 

Yuuri rises, silent as always as Phichit enters the room, decked out in his armor as a General. They’re deploying him off to the front lines, right at _Nikiforov’s_ damn feet, and Yuuri can only remember one occasion where he has felt fear as strong as this.

He hates it.

They’ve both grown hearing of Anatoly Nikiforov’s only son; how deadly he is, how he leaves no survivors, how his heart must surely be as cold as the ice he commands, and now, to know that Phichit is being dropped right at that man’s door; _like a mouse before a prowling cat,_ his traitorous brain supplies, is terrifying.

Yuuri cups Phichit’s face with a careful hand. The other is hidden behind within the voluminous sleeves of a _haori_ , and Yuuri watches, careful, gauging to see if Phichit shies away from the chill of his hands.

Phichit blinks, carefully pulling Yuuri’s hands into his own, and rubbing them together. “They’ve gotten colder,” he murmurs, quiet. “Are you -”

“I don’t know,” Yuuri responds, tired and soft. “I’ll figure something out. Don’t worry about me, Phichit. You have enough to worry about yourself.”

Phichit smiles, but it’s a paltry imitation of the real thing. “I am,” he promises. His eyes are sincere. “But I’ll always worry about you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri stares down at his hand, and at Phichit’s own clasped around it, and for what is certainly not the first time, wishes that he could bend fire too.

“Stay safe,” he says instead, and reaches up to rest it against Phichit’s face once more. “Stay alive.”

“I’ll do my best.”

It’s not good enough, but it will have to do. They don’t have the time - nor the luxury - for a tearful farewell.

* * *

**APRIL 28TH, XX15. BORDERLANDS SOUTH OF SANKT PYOTR, NORTHERN WATER TRIBE.**

 

They’re locked in a deadly dance when the missive comes. The general, face tight with pain barks out for his soldiers to halt as a falcon swoops through the air, tawny wings spread wide enough to block out what little sunlight filters through the clouds of smog. The flames sputter out and die around the general, and trembling, he holds his arm up, as the falcon dives down to land upon the leather gauntlet that covers his arm.

“Thank you,” Viktor hears the general murmur to the falcon, as he slides the rolled missive out from the scarlet red pouch tied around the falcon’s neck. The glint of gold in the pattern of flames is telling - this is a _royal_ missive. Something has changed in the capital, and though the Fire Lord would undoubtedly know that the missive would not reach the general and his troops for a week at the least, this is important enough to send over turbulent seas and bitter cold.

Viktor lowers his sword slowly, and watches as his clansmen do the same. < /p>

“Lower your weapons,” the general says, lifting his helmet from his face with an unsteady hand. He’s so _young_ , and Viktor blinks a few times, uncertain if battle fatigue is distorting his vision. There is still some roundness to the general’s cheeks - the kind that only baby fat can leave - and his straight, pitch black fringe sticks to his forehead. “We will fight you and your no more.” He looks at Viktor, and down to Viktor’s sword. A flicker of _something_ runs through his eyes, and then he inclines in head in acknowledgment.

“The Fire Lord is dead! Long live Lord Toshiya!” He yells, this time, to his men. Despite the tremors that wrack his body, and the blood dripping from wounds that Viktor has inflicted, he seems jubilant, his face lit and glowing.

Stunned to silence, Viktor turns, and watches as all around, Fire Nation soldiers drop their weapons, and pull of their helmets. A resounding cheer shakes the ice, and men and women are cheering alongside their general.

Confused as he is, Viktor feels something in his chest loosen. Panting, Mila comes to a stop beside him, fur-lined hood around her shoulders, and her blood red hair a bright beacon against the neverending white. “This...this could be a trap, Vitya,” she murmurs, but her spear is no longer bared; slack rather, and loose gripped against her side.

Viktor stares out at the cheering Fire Nation soldiers, and then back to his clansmen. He takes in the confusion rippling and roiling across the battlefield, and looks once more at the barely-mature face of the Fire Nation general.

“No,” he says, softly. “No, I don’t think this is.”

* * *

**MAY 2ND, XX15. INNER GARDENS, HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

 

Rain is falling in Caldera. Though his father’s coronation is today, Yuuri doesn’t know if he can handle staying in the ballroom, mingling with prodding courtesans, and power-hungry politicians. _Let Mari handle them,_ he thinks, staring up at the stormy sky. _She always knew what best to do with them._  
The garden smells of flowers, the dew coaxing open every blossom. The scents, combined are dizzying, but Yuuri pays them no heed - his mind is elsewhere.  
Yuuri stares up at the sky. Wonders, if the falcon has reached the Northern Water Tribe front yet, and if Phichit has finally been able to lay down his weapons and celebrate the end of the war with his men.

He wonders, if, perhaps Nikiforov had gotten to Phichit before the missive.

Yuuri’s fingers tighten in the silk sleeves of his _haori_ , the sleeves wider and heavier than the everyday one he wears. The chrysanthemums and dragonflies patterned across the spring green silk wrinkle as he grips the silk tight enough to rip it.

_That has not happened,_ he promises himself. _It won’t._

The rain falls in an arc around Yuuri, not a single droplet falling onto the delicate silk, or on his hair or skin. Yuuri can bend water around him with little thought, but he wonders, if he believes hard enough that Phichit will come home unharmed. They are fighting on both ends, and Yuuri hopes that Phichit will not regret what he has done to keep himself alive. Yuuri knows that _he_ will not.

_Come home safe,_ he prays, staring up into the clouds. _You told me you’d come back safe._

Footsteps interrupt his revery. “What are you doing?” a voice calls from behind, and Yuuri turns around at the sound of footsteps against wet pavement, to see Mari making her way through the rain, a parasol held above her head. 

The sleeves of her _furisode_ are rolled up, tucked into her bodice so as not to get the rich silk wet. She’s left the traditional shoes behind for leather boots. “You’re going to get sick if you stay out in the rain this long, Yuuri,” Mari grumbles, stepping over felled foliage, and skirting around the large bushes of chrysanthemums that Mother is so fond of. 

Yuuri spreads his arms out, and watches as the rain flees from him, not a droplet landing to wet his hair, or wrinkle the fine silk of his clothing. “You were saying?” He asks, dull and quiet. 

Mari lets out a sigh - she is all too used to his moods. “It does not make the wind any less bone-chilling,” she says, with long suffering patience. “Come _inside_ , Yuuri.” She holds her parasol over his head as well, and watches as the rain begins to skirt around the both of them. “Mother wants to know where you’ve been - the ceremony is about to begin.” 

Yuuri nods, and reaches up, pulling the veil down over his face. “Alright. Let’s go, then.” 

His sister stays there for a moment longer, before taking Yuuri’s hand, and walking them both in, parasol held steady above their heads all the while. Yuuri stares down at where their hands intertwine, the warmth of her hand leeching into his own.

* * *

**APRIL 27TH, XX17. SANKT PYOTR, NORTHERN WATER TRIBE.**

 

 

Viktor desperately wants to ignore Nikolai’s summons. He _knows_ what they’re for - knows too that this has been a long time coming. 

It takes a long time to recover from centuries of war - the rebuilding takes time. Tending to the wounded, and identifying the dead takes even longer, if only because of how painful it is to write missives to hopeful families that will soon be grieving, and shipping bodies (or what little is left of them) home. One of the hardest deaths to write up is Alexey Vasilevskiy - the only boy left to carry on his family’s name. Viktor watches from afar as his mother cradles what little they could salvage of his charred remains. He was all she had left - and he had been so _young_ , face still rounded with childhood. 

It takes - and it will take - even longer for them to fully trust the Fire Nation again. The argument can be made that nothing ever _will_ change - this is hardly the first time in history that the Fire Nation has attacked, and history is doomed to repeat itself, over and over and over again. Perhaps this, like the Avatar Cycle, is a Cycle that is unlikely to ever end. 

Viktor desperately does not want to go to Caldera. This - _diplomacy_ \- is not his thing. Viktor has always been fighting, since the moment he was born, kicking and fighting. That was the way his father had raised him. That was the way every Nikiforov son had been raised. _My boremsya, i my ne sdayemsya._ We fight, and we do not surrender. 

Mother, ever the scholar, ever the visionary, had simply fixed his hair and called it primitive. It has been _so long_ since Viktor has reached into what she had left behind for him - the tenacity, the smiling facade, the pleasant veneer and quick charm. Although Viktor does not want to go to Caldera, he knows that one does not ignore the Tsar, not even a Nikiforov. 

His mother was a snake hiding beneath the flowers. Viktor figures that it might be high time that he stopped being the lion, and began to channel the snake. The nobility of the Fire Nation are conniving and sly, and if beating them at their own game is what it takes to ensure the safety of his people - and to guarantee that there will be no more Alexeys, Viktor is more than willing to do just that. 

His mind made up, Viktor throws on his cloak, and leaves to heed the Tsar’s summons. (being 20 minutes late to them is just a small, petty victory.)

* * *

**APRIL 27TH, XX17. HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

Yuuri is perched on his sister’s bed, and watching, over the top of his book, as she packs. The large, leather trunk is filling up quickly - though, he supposes that may be mostly due to the fact that Mari is just crumpling clothing and throwing them into the trunk, without rhyme or reason. 

“ _Gods!_ You’d think, with all the formal clothing I’ve got to pack for this damn summit, that I’d be spending all of it dancing at parties, rather than discussing a formal treatise with the Crown Prince,” she complains, chucking a balled up _kimono_ into the trunk. 

Yuuri flips a page in his book, and notes, a little disinterestedly, that the protagonist is now bemoaning the fact that she has to choose between one man or the other. It’s a boring book, vapid and empty - the kind of book a lovesick teenager might read. He’s not entirely certain why he’s reading it at this point - a gossip rag would have more substance than this. 

“Are you even - nevermind, no you’re not,” Mari grumbles, shoving a twine-bound sheaf of papers into her trunk as well. “If you’re not going to egg on my bitching and moaning, why are you even _here_ , Yuuri?” 

Tired with the protagonist’s endless bemoaning over her romantic situation, Yuuri snaps the tiny novel shut, and laughs a little at Mari. “Father wanted us half an hour ago,” he reminds her. “Something about an embassy.” 

It has been two years since Grandfather’s passing - two years of relative _peace_. Phichit is still healing, and Yuuri knows that whenever he looks upon the distorted line of Phichit’s arm, he cannot help but _hate_ Nikiforov and all that he’s done. Phichit will never bend as smoothly as he used to, and his arm will never straighten, and he will never walk without the aid of a cane again. 

_But he’s home,_ Yuuri chides himself - and the voice sounds more like Phichit’s than his own - and thanks the Ancestors that Phichit is not dead, and that the missive reached the frontlines in time. Phichit will need physical therapy for years still, but what matters is that Yuuri didn’t lose him to war and ice, a million miles away, under the blade of the Fire Nation’s very own bogeyman. 

“Fuck, wait what?” Mari squawks, slamming the lid of her leather trunk shut abruptly. “ _Half an hour ago?”_

Yuuri nods, and tries to pretend that this isn’t wholly amusing. “Are you ready?” 

Mari, who detests decorum, and is also an _actual child_ , sticks her tongue out at him, before sloppily knotting her discarded yellow sash around the waist of her tunic. She takes off in a sprint for Father’s offices, bare feet slapping against the cobblestone. Yuuri, whose signature _haori_ is too long and heavy to run in without shedding the top coat and hitching up the lining underneath, just walks after her. 

He's not the responsible one by any means, but it feels nice to laugh like they’re just children again. And it isn’t like Father has anything serious to tell Mari, anyways. The War is over. They're recovering, and it's a slow, grueling process, but it's a step towards unity and _peace._ Yuuri might never be truly content as he is - the chill of his touch compared to the burning warmth of his people’s will always be a stark reminder of that - but the coming of peace is enough to snap him from his normal melancholy.

* * *

**APRIL 27TH, XX17. SANKT PYOTR, NORTHERN WATER TRIBE.**

Viktor is packing to board a ship bound South - to the Fire Nation, to Caldera. (though, viktor honestly believes that the millennia old nickname “the snake’s nest” is far more appropriate but - he’s an _ambassador_ now, and ambassadors don’t go around insulting the kingdoms they are visiting.) 

“You’re leaving.” There’s a small voice outside of his quarters, and Viktor turns just in time to see Nikolai’s grandson, Yuri parting the curtains that separate his bedroom from the foyer outside. 

“I am,” Viktor confirms, latching his suitcase closed. Yuri is young - a baby faced seven to Viktor’s twenty - and Viktor is certain that him leaving must feel an awful lot like losing another person close to him. “I’ll only be gone for a few months, though. And you’re coming to visit too, right, Yura?” 

Yuri scowls. “Don’t patronize me,” he hisses, and laughing, Viktor bends down to ruffle his hair. He’s far stronger than anyone so young should have to be but - well. That’s the price of war. Children lose their parents, and children lose their childhood. 

_I’m sorry,_ Viktor wants to say, because Ekaterina Plisetskaya was a part of his command, a petite spitfire of a woman, bright and burning and young. And Yuri had lost his father to war, and Viktor had promised to bring his mother home safe too, but he had failed, and there aren’t words to even begin to breach just how deep his regret runs. “We’ll go look at those big cats when you come to Caldera, alright?” He says instead, and it’s flimsy and weak. 

“Fine,” Yuri says, and he lets go of the curtains, walking away. Viktor watches him go, and wonders if he might be able to stop him from becoming more ghost than he is boy. 

_Write Mom,_ he scrawls onto his arm instead, and opens up his suitcase to put in a sheaf of stationary.

* * *

**APRIL 28TH, XX17. FUKUOKA BALLOON PORT, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

“I’ll see you in a month, Yuuri,” Mari says, and she holds her little brother close. His head slots perfectly into the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, and it has always been this way, even as they’ve grown larger and older and wearier, because Mari has always made room for Yuuri when it counts the most. “Send a gyrfalcon if it gets bad,” she murmurs. “I’ll get on the next balloon home, consequences be damned.” 

Yuuri mumbled something into her clavicle. It’s a nice sentiment, they both know, but as heir and spare, there are duties they _must_ uphold for their country and people. No rushing away from diplomatic talks to comfort distressed baby brothers, and no more sneaking away at boring parties to skip rocks in the still, blue pond by the garden. 

Mari pulls away from him, and watches as her brother composes himself, drawing further into himself. He draws that veil down over his eyes, a thin piece of gossamer silk between them. He’s swapped out his usual Court attire for a more formal _hakama_ and _haori_ , a pattern of deep blue and burnished gold roses marking his designation of Second Prince. 

“A month,” Mari promises, smoothing her _furisode._ “I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.” 

Yuuri smiles, a small, sardonic sort of thing, hidden beneath a veneer of pleasantness and silk. “Safe travelling, Mari,” he says in parting, waving _goodbye, goodbye,_ after her. 

Mari watches her brother as she boards the balloon to the Earth Kingdom, and does not want to think about how well the colors of the Water Tribe suit her brother.

* * *

**MAY 5TH, XX17. PIANDAO PORT, CALDERA.**

The Water Tribe’s ship docks at Piandao just as the sun is setting the sky aflame, and men and women working the docks have begun to light the many lanterns strung up along the docks. Loathe as Viktor is to admit it, the port is gorgeous, framed in lantern light, and turning bronze from the setting sun. 

Children flock to the port, holding colorful banners in the shape of carp, running around in formal wear. The streets are glowing golden, and people crowd the streets, in pairs or groups, children weaving through the crowds. _A festival,_ Viktor thinks, as the crew begins to tether the ship to the dock. It feels almost _sickening_ to watch the people of the Fire Nation celebrate with such glee and ease after over a century of bloodshed and nonstop war. But it also warms Viktor’s heart, to watch children laugh and play - as children ought to do - carefree, and without the worries and burdens of wartime. 

Viktor leans against the railing of the ship, content to watch the children for as long as he can, but off of the corner of his eye, he spots them. Dressed in clothing far more opulent and formal than the surrounding festival-goers, is a veiled person, surrounded by a small retinue. The clothing they wear reflects the light, and the shimmer of gold, woven into what is undoubtedly silk, would be more than enough to tell Viktor that this is the reception Nikolai had spoken of. 

However, Viktor recognizes the man for reasons far different than that. The veil is telling, after all. Viktor knows the members of the currently Royal family - knows them because the lineage of the Fire Lord has always been far more powerful than the rest, and knows them because if one of the Fire Lord’s children (or grandchildren) ever came up North to the frontlines, that all might as well be lost. 

But Viktor knows this man, because he is only Royal child in a millennia who has not been able to bend. Katsuki Yuurihito, the Fire Lord’s second son, famed through his kingdom for being unable to bend fire like his sister, father and common mother, and for the veil he hides himself behind. 

There are no photographs of the Prince before the veil. 

Uncurling his hand from around the railing of the ship, Viktor makes his way down the ramp, onto the dock. (he tries to ignore the dread rising in his stomach as he does.)

* * *

It is _Kodomo no Hi_ , when Mari leaves for the Earth Kingdom, and Nikiforov arrives from the North. 

Yuuri stands with his retinue on the docks of Piandao Port, watching children run around with _koinobori,_ and waits for Nikiforov to come down from his ship. Selfishly, Yuuri wishes that he had asked for Phichit, but his friend has been through enough at Nikiforov’s hand and blade, and the last thing Yuuri should be doing is bringing Phichit around, and forcing him to stay with that man for months on end. 

Nikiforov is in front of him, and Yuuri wonders how he got so lost in himself, that he lost track of time. 

“Highness,” Nikiforov intones, bowing low at the waist. 

Yuuri inclines his head. It’s petty, and if Minako were here she would be scandalized, but Yuuri has spent most of his life in fear of this man, has had to watch his best friend come home from a _meaningless_ war crippled by this man, who remains untouched and uninjured in front of Yuuri. 

Let Nikiforov be insulted. What is one insult to such a man, against all the ones he has paid Yuuri in turn? 

“Welcome to Caldera,” Yuuri murmurs, after Nikiforov has risen. “I trust you encountered little difficulty on your journey.” With a crook of his finger, Yuuri sets off towards Hasetsu Palace, and the click of the retinue’s _geta_ following not far behind him. 

“The waters were smooth for our journey,” Nikiforov answers, striding beside him. “Though it was strange to be so far South, you must understand.” 

Yuuri fights the urge to grit his teeth. “Certainly,” he replies. “After all, after spending most of your life amidst constant ice and snow, the warmth of spring must certainly be strange.” 

“I would call this more summer than spring, but certainly,” Nikiforov says, tone deceptively light. “Is there a celebration today?” 

“Yes,” Yuuri says, tucking his hands into his _haori._ “Today is Children’s Day.” 

If Nikiforov is confused, he certainly doesn’t let it show. They continue down the main street, _koi_ shaped lanterns and flags flickering and bobbing merrily with the faint breeze blowing in from the ocean. The sound of laughter swells and fills the streets of Caldera, and behind the veil and the silks, Yuuri allows himself a single, soft smile. 

Children are safe, running in hordes and groups, twining their way through adults and vendor stands. In childhood there is simplicity, for children forgive so easily, Yuuri finds. These children stare at Nikiforov in awe, a little boy asking his elder sister if there is fur like that in the Fire Nation. They gasp at the sword holstered at his waist, and gawk at the pale coloring of his hair and skin. 

He’s the boogeyman of the Fire Nation - the White Death, in the flesh, and these children are so innocent and carefree. They have long forgotten the fear and terror of war, because two years may as well be a century to a child. That was war, but this is peace. 

Yuuri reaches out and catches a runaway balloon. The pattern on the koi is floral, a riot of crimson blossoms and pale lavender. 

“Thank you for catching my balloon, high’ess,” a child says, stumbling up to him. Her chest heaves as she struggles to catch her breath, and her _kanzashi_ droops from her now loose hairstyle. 

He doesn’t stoop down to give it to her - an image is an image, and the retinue and _Nikiforov_ is here, and no matter how much Yuuri would very much like to, he has places to be, and one, young child cannot hold him. She reaches up for her balloon, and gently, Yuuri ties the cord of it around her outstretched wrist. It bobs cheerfully from her wrist, and the little girl beams. 

“Take care not to lose it again,” Yuuri murmurs. His voice is pitched just barely above a whisper. The little girl stares at him, and for a moment, her eyes are impossibly old. 

She doesn’t say anything else to him, just bobs her head in a child-like bow, and runs back into the crowd, towards a group of children loitering around the goldfish catching game. 

Yuuri does not watch her go.

* * *

мама, 

_The Southern Water Tribe is impossibly far away from her sister tribe, but perhaps not so much from the Fire Nation. Still, your distance is felt,_ мама. 

 

_We have been at peace for two years now, and still, there are some days where I wake up, and expect to hear the warhorn in the distance, and taste ash in the air. Not to say, that is, that there was likely ever such a thing in the Fire Nation, and certainly not the Capitol._

 

 _Caldera is beautiful, of course. Not as beautiful as Sankt Pyotr, as little can match the glory of the_ зимний дворец. _In a more...opulent way. Little in Caldera is not drenched in crimson or gold. Aside from their elusive Second Son._

мама, _I am certain that you would not find him as confusing as I do. He is reticent and distant, although I can understand that. Am I not the boogeyman of their nation? I will not deny that my hands are as bloodstained as their own, but at least the blood on mine is for a cause that is just. But that is not important._

 _You were always the politician between you and_ отец. _I am not certain if this Second Son is entrenched in the politics and intrigue of his court. He does not bend, and the veil over his face is rumored to be ever-present. I wish I had come into this game better prepared - though now, after a night amongst the courtesans that call Caldera’s Summer Court their home, I am more inclined to call it a war._

 _I hope that you might provide me with the insight and wisdom I have grown up knowing you have - and that you might pass it onto me. Write back soon,_ мама. 

 

_Yours,_

 

_Viktor._

* * *

**MAY 5TH, XX17. NISHIDAMARI-NO-MA, HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

 

 

Yuuri stays beside Nikiforov during the Summer Court’s festivities that evening, because Spirits forbid that the courtesans forgo a chance to flaunt to one another, and posture like peacocks. But, he does nothing more than stay there. Yuuri does not move to help Nikiforov from the prying of the courtesans, because Yuuri is petty, but even more than that, Yuuri does not speak in the Court. 

Speaking in the Summer Courts is for Mari, or Second Sons that do not bring shame to the family as they draw breath, and Second Sons that do not hide behind veils. Yuuri is, in all reality, little more than a porcelain doll in the Summer Courts, clothed in silks and gold, but just there to sit and draw attention. 

He does get _some_ scant amusement from watching Nikiforov slowly begin to lose his wits as the night goes on. It’s not that the man looks flustered - no, not a single hair is out of place, Yuuri bemoans, eyeing Nikiforov from over an undrunk cup of plum _sake_ \- it’s the little things. The slight twitch in his eye. The way his hand seems to want to move to the hilt of his sword more and more as the night grows longer. The tension in the ends of his smile. Yuuri may not speak in the Summer Court, but that does not mean that he does not play his own games from behind the scenes. Disgrace of a Second Son or not, Yuuri will not leave Mari without her left hand man, when it comes time for her to take to the throne. 

“Perhaps you would like to retire for the night?” Yuuri suggests, setting his glass down. Minami Kenshin is, while not a particularly bright or cunning man, a tiring man in his own right - just like his eldest son. 

“Will I offend the Fire Lord if I do?” Nikiforov asks, picking up a long necked flute of champagne from a passing servant. His eyes are silghtly hostile, and Yuuri can feel the fine hairs on the nape of his neck prickle as they stand up, like soldiers coming to attention. 

“No.” Yuuri begins to walk from the veranda, staying to the side, and far, _far_ away from the clique of young courtesans mobbed near the center of the large patio. “Soon, all the heirs will be dismissed for their own gatherings, and the courtesans will move into the innermost reception.” 

“I see,” Nikiforov murmurs, drinking quietly from his glass. Yuuri watches him from the corner of his eye, and feels a little shock. How unexpected, that Nikiforov would know how to behave in a court - even though he insists on asking inane questions from time to time. 

Yuuri thinks of Phichit, with his trembling arms and legs, and that damn cane, and feels the ever familiar burn of rage settle into his bones once more. _No mercy for this man, he scolds himself. Not after all he’s done._

“You will be residing in the ambassadorial wing,” he says, pushing the large, gilded doors open. The long wood hall is not nearly as dusty as it was a week ago, when Yuuri fled yet another gathering of the Summer Court to hole himself up in the small study in the ambassador’s wing. Yuuri would very much like to let Nikiforov wander the halls of Hasetsu Palace, lost, but for propriety’s sake, and the sake of the poor staff’s hearts, he guides Nikiforov through the halls, making certain to mark out ways to the common areas that Nikiforov will doubtlessly need to know for the duration of his stay. 

“Thank you.” Nikiforov is lingering in the doorway to his quarters, and Yuuri stops in the middle of the hallway, and stares at him for what feels to be an eternity. 

“A common courtesy,” Yuuri remarks, sharp through all the mild overtones. “Come find me when you are ready to depart in the morning.” 

He bows slightly in Nikiforov’s direction, and walks faster and faster until he can hear the echo of the gilded doors closing behind him. The more distance he puts between that man and him the better. 

Yuuri hitches up the cloth of his court dress and books it back to his quarters. The night is no longer young, and the moon is ripe and full in the sky, and the pull to the water is stronger than ever. 

He takes his _zori_ in one hand, and runs back to his rooms. Away from Nikiforov, away from the silver moon, and away from the siren’s call of the water. 

Yuuri lets his legs carry him faster and faster - and inside, mocks himself for running, running, _running,_ yet again.

* * *

**MAY 6TH, XX17. HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

 

 

The sun rises in Caldera far later than in Sankt Pyotr. Viktor rises before the sun, and paces the length of his expansive rooms, letter in hand. How likely would it be that the Second Son would be awake at this hour? Very unlikely, Viktor thinks, at sets down his letter before he can crumple in his fist. 

The itch to _do_ something - something other than this useless posturing, smiling his way through the Summer Court, schmoozing amongst nobility - burns bright under Viktor’s skin. He is a supernova, primed to explode, and take entire galaxies out in his final blaze of glory. 

There is so little _purpose_ for him these days - well, aside from one thing - but Viktor aches for a purpose outside of barbed words and silver tongues. Does it make him a monster to miss the rush of adrenaline that courses through him when he draws his sword? To miss the sensation of water barely missing its target? 

Viktor rubs his hands up and down his arms, and takes up the letter. The sun will not rise for hours more, he’s realized, and Viktor has little patience left to wait for the Second Son to rise with it. Or after it. Either way, Viktor’s patience is running thin, and while the days run long in the Fire Nation, as a nation in eternal summer seems wont to do, that only means that by _waiting_ on this damnably confusing Second Son, Viktor is wasting time.

* * *

Yuuri does not want to admit to the shriek that came out of nowhere, just as Nikiforov did, - at the _ass crack of dawn_ , to boot - storming into the innermost gardens. 

“I.” Nikiforov is blinking, and beginning to look less harried than before. “I. Didn’t expect you to be awake,” he offers, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. 

Yuuri clears his throat awkwardly and smoothes down the cotton of his sleep _yukata._ “Are you lost?” 

“Very much so,” he says, rubbing the back of his head. There’s a certain sort of honesty to him, this early in the morning, Yuuri finds. His body is more relaxed - almost languid. _Morning relaxes most men,_ Minako had said, once upon a time, years upon years ago. “I’m looking for the post room.” 

“The falconry?” Yuuri asks, picking his way across the grass. His sandals are still on the porch of the garden, and the way to the falconry is a long ways from the inner gardens. “It should be open. Come.” 

He crooks a finger in Nikiforov’s direction, and slips into his sandals. If they hurry, they might make it back in time for the Court breakfast Mother had been talking about late last night, in these gardens. 

Yuuri rings his hands together inside the sleeves of his _yukata_ and begins to think of the reasons why Nikiforov would possibly need a hawk. A missive, most likely. A letter back to Saint Peters, but for what? A letter to a lover, a relative - no, Yuuri remembers the day that Anatoly Nikiforov died, and how Grandfather’s face lit up with such savagery that Mari had tucked his face into her chest behind one of the great, dark marble columns in the throne room. 

_“Don’t look,”_ she’d begged. But Yuuri had ears, and young children remembered the best of all, history had found, and even though the memory is old and gray with time, he can still remember the pleased rumble in Grandfather and his generals’ voices, and how he’d shivered with fear at the sound of it. 

Yuuri can never remember another time in which Grandfather smiled. Mari likes to claim that he smiled the day Grandmother died, but Yuuri doesn’t want that to be true. 

A letter, with information on Caldera? Yuuri’s fingers dig into his skin at the thought of the Northern Water Tribe invading his home, when the newfound peace is still fragile and tentative, like a butterfly’s wings fresh from a cocoon. 

Yuuri stores this unease deep within his chest, and tells himself to keep a closer eye on Nikiforov. If it comes to it, Yuuri will die to stop Nikiforov from breaking the peace, as is the job of a Second Son. 

Summer has never felt quite so cold, even for early dawn.

* * *

(“fly safe,” viktor murmurs to the bird, stroking tawny plumage, as he slides the letter into the satchel on its leg. “Удача быть с вами в вашем путешествии.” 

the gyrfalcon pecks at a strand of hair on viktor’s head in response, and caws mournfully as viktor shoos it out the skylight at the very top of the falconry. he crosses his arms, and wonders if mother will remember him from this letter alone, or if she will drag her heels, and check for an imposter at every turn. it’s been so long - and viktor has forgotten almost all of his mother but the barest wisps of fond memories. 

viktor stares up into the skylight, as dawn begins to break over the horizon and wonders, caldera waking at his feet, and their precious Second Son in quiet contemplation behind him. _the world is an odd place_ , viktor thinks.)

* * *

**MAY 31ST, XX17. SUWA-NO-CHAYA, HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

 

 

Father pulls Nikiforov aside for more emminent manners after the breakfast, and Yuuri smiles weakly at Mother as she worries over his still-full plate. 

“I’m fine, _really,_ ” he says, busying himself with the tie of his _yukata._ “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Mother brushes back his hair - and it’s getting a little long, shaggy enough that it falls in front of Yuuri’s eyes if not pinned back or brushed to the side - and pulls his fingers away from the tie of the _yukata._ “I’m your mother, Yuuri. It’s my job to worry about you,” she chides, smoothing the wrinkled cotton of his _yukata._ “Just...eat something soon, alright?” 

Yuuri hates how resigned she sounds - his family is used to his odd eating habits, the loss of appetite, and the general strangeness he carries around with him, even though they should not have to be. By all past laws, and past precedence, Father should have killed Yuuri the moment he’d shown a sign of waterbending. 

He wonders, sometimes, if it would have been a more merciful fate to have died that day - but. Yuuri is not capable of leaving Mari to stand alone, untethered and unsupported amidst the chaos and turmoil of a nation newly freed from centuries of warfare. His duties are the only thing holding him here. 

“Promise,” Yuuri lies, smiling weakly at Mother. “I’ll grab something from the kitchens soon.” 

Mother looks at him, and he knows that she knows that he is lying - what else is new - but she nods, slowly, reluctantly, and brushes his hair back again one more time. “Alright. Have a good day,” she murmurs, before gliding away. He’s kept her from her duties long enough. 

(there’s a tremor in his hands, so small that it’s barely noticeable, but once mother leaves the garden, yuuri can feel it spreading, like tendrils of cold snaking through his body, chilling him to the core. the pond by the hydrangeas quivers violently, freezing over in patches, and boiling in others. 

_stop,_ yuuri wants to scream. _stop it, stop it._

it’s so _easy_ to lose control - frighteningly so, actually - and this monstrous part of yuuri is something that has only grown more and more wild over the years, and every time he denies it, pushing it further and further down, he can feel it pushing harder and harder against his barriers. it’s just,

yuuri isn’t sure just how much longer he can stay in control for.)

* * *

**MAY 31ST, MATSU-NO-MA, HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

 

 

In a room of Fire Nation royalty and Fire Nation leaders, Viktor can feel the hostility fill the chamber, tangible, and thick enough to cut with a knife. His hands twitch at his sides, color leached, and blue veins bulging out with how tight and taut they are. In a lion’s den, without even his sword by his side. 

_Firebenders are crafty, Viktor,_ Father had warned. _You must always be six steps ahead._

Six hadn't made sense at the time, but now? Now it does. Five great generals, and the Fire Lord himself, gathered around this table, decked in gold and black and crimson red. A step for each. 

The woman general clears her throat. “If we are ready to proceed?” She asks, turning to look at the Fire Lord. 

Seated at the other head of the table, the Fire Lord nods, regal, despite his build that is anything but. 

The woman general gestures for a servant, who spreads open a roll of yellowing parchment onto the war table. The ink on it is surprisingly dark, though it fades and grays in spots, betrayed by age and time. Viktor recognizes it - and raises an eyebrow at the female general. 

She smiles at him, and it is so, _so_ fake - cold and sharp, with a hardness only found in diamonds. “This is the first treatise signed by the Fire Nation and the Water Tribes. After the first Hundred-Year War.” She taps a finger, strangely gentle, on Fire Lord Zuko’s precise signature, and the blood red of the phoenix seal of the Royal Family. The then Fire Lord’s signature is beside the ones of the Northern Tsar’s, and the Southern Chief’s, and Viktor smiles with a bitter quirk of the lips. “We have been working with your Tsar to draft a new treaty.” 

She snaps her fingers again, and the self same servant comes, this time with a different roll of parchment. “We will have you read it over - your Tsar has said, that ultimately, this your decision, not his.” 

Accepting the parchment, Viktor unrolls it with a solemnity reserved for war meetings - and now, he supposes, for meetings that will either make or break this fragile point of peace. “Always pushing, aren’t we, Nikolai,” he murmurs beneath his breath. Viktor is not a diplomat, not as his mother once was - he takes after his father in the way that his hands are drenched red. _There is red in your father’s books,_ Mother had said. _And he has spent every day trying to atone for it._

Viktor wonders, sometimes, if Mother had meant something more than just wartime deaths, and knows, with a silent gravity, that she did. Viktor has red in his books too - _Alexey, Diana, Yermolai_ \- but perhaps the coming of peace is enough to begin to atone for it. If this peace can keep his people safe, then Viktor will strip himself of who he once was over and over again, and slip into the skin of a diplomat time and time again. _Just as there is more than one way to skin a bear, Viten’ka, there are more ways to protect those you love than by picking up a sword, or learning to bend. One day, I will teach you them._

He looks down at the treaty, and begins to read. _Trade between the Fire Nation and….a reparation fee will be paid….an exchange of citizens between both Nations….a border shall be drawn...no violence or harm shall come to...should these clauses be violated by a citizen of either nation, a swift punishment shall be dealt by the victim’s government, after conversing and alerting the offender’s government of the charges to be pressed….with this we shall hope to bring forth a new era of peace, in the hopes that it shall be sustained for generations to come._ The entire document is entirely tedious, and it gives Viktor a bit of a headache, in all honesty. But it’s a beginning. It’s sound, and seems fair enough, even if there are some clauses that Viktor thinks are poorly thought out, but in the end - this is happening, isn’t it? Peace is coming, on silent feet, on the heels of men and women who Viktor had fought on a backdrop of white and ice, on the heels of a nation who cannot remember why their ancestors began this war, and on the heels of a nation long plagued by a war that they cannot remember the beginning of. 

Meeting the woman general’s eyes, Viktor sets the treaty down onto the war table. “Is there any spare paper?” 

She gestures over one of her fellow men towards the servant, who bows, and then rushes out to procure the paper. “Do you have anything to say?” She asks, after the servant has left. “We will record them onto paper once Tanaka returns.” 

Viktor purses his lips, and leaning over the war table, begins to discuss amendments to the treaty. 

(peace no longer feels like such a far off dream)

* * *

**MAY 31ST, XX17. ????, HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

 

 

Yuuri is hiding. Crouched in the corner of the very back of his closet, knees around his ears, breathing harsh and quick. He hasn't felt like this in ages - hasn't clung to quiet and darkness in a panic in ages. It feels even longer without Mari by his side. 

The dust feels more like chalk, clogging his throat and nose, caking on his tongue, drying it out. Yuuri buries further into himself, searching for that tether that he _knows_ should be there. 

He wants Mari. Even the scent of tobacco that would cling to her clothing would be alright - even though tobacco smells of fire, in a way that makes Yuuri even more aware of the ice coursing through his blood and bones. He wants Mari, in silk or worn cotton, with rouge over her cheeks, or the apples of her cheeks red from running around Hasetsu Palace. 

_i wish you were here i wish you were here,_ says the staccato of his heartbeat, an unsteady rhythm, matching every hitch and catch of his breath. 

A small, muffled cry wrenches itself out from his chest, and Yuuri smothers it in his knees, and silently, begs for someone to open the door. 

(across the way, from the window by the royal halls, viktor turns, fresh from the war room, to see the pond in the central gardens shudder, and freeze over. “strange,” he murmurs. 

there are no surviving waterbenders in caldera.)

* * *

Viten’ka,

 

_The South is far from home, but Caldera is, I assure you, much closer. Perhaps you should journey to the sister tribe once business is Caldera is done - providing Nikolai does not get a sudden urge to bring you back. I suspect he has already made his move, bringing more responsibility upon your shoulders. His time as Tsar grows shorter with every passing year, Viten’ka._

 

 _I will admit to counselling him on this matter, but you will find no regret from your dear mother,_ zvyozdochka. _I have told you time and time again, that to insure the safety of the people of the North. You will do fine, but I am here to offer you consul, as you have asked me to._

 

_I cannot advise you on matters of the heart - and deny it all you wish to, zvyozdochka, your ordeal with the Second Son of Caldera is just that. The heart is an arrow, and it demands to land true. With your Second Son, I doubt that your heart will lead you astray. Ask the correct questions, Viten’ka, and I will answer the queries you should be asking in regards to this Second Son. All other matters with him are those of the heart, and I will say it time and time again, my son: your heart will not lead you astray. You must become a politician, not a fool. The heart may never lead you astray, but your penis will. Learn to separate the two before making this decision._

 

 _As for the Summer Court, it is not so different than a game of chess, or perhaps charades. Although, I suspect you are not so far off the mark when you call it a war. Years as a warrior will have doubtlessly taught you how to read body language. Use this - and take the time to learn how to listen to the words that are unsaid. The spoken word is important, but in Caldera, the unspoken word even more so. Remember this above all,_ zvyozdochka. 

 

_Ask the correct questions before I give you the answers you desire, Viten’ka. And write to your mother for things other than an oncoming political crisis - the first letter I receive from you in five years, and this is what I get? A better mother than I would be offended._

 

 _Mind your manners,_ zvyozdochka,

 

_Irena Mikhailova_

* * *

**MAY 31ST, XX17. INNER GARDENS, HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

 

 

The Second Son finds Viktor again, early in the evening, sitting by the pond underneath the wisteria tree in the central gardens. The pond has since thawed out, ice sluicing back into the murky calm of the waters. _A waterbender, in Caldera,_ Viktor thinks. _Could that have, perhaps, been how the previous Fire Lord died?_

“There is gathering in _Suizen-ji Joju-en_ tonight,” a voice says. Viktor swerves around, hands tense. The Second Son stands beside him, silent as a ghost, and twice as pale. The crimson of his robes brings no color to his cheeks, and the way they fall, long over his hands and trailing behind him only serve to give the Second Son an odd sense of frailty. He seems too small for his skin, and looks as if even a faint breeze might push him over. 

Viktor looks again, and knows that appearances are deceiving. There is a silent strength to the Second Son, despite his pale countenance, and frail hands. “ _Suizen-ji Joju-en_?” He asks, and the flash of bemusement in the Second Son’s eyes tells him that he’s mangled the delicate phonetics horribly. 

The Second Son kneels beside the lake, and reaches out to finger the butter-soft petals of a lotus that has drifted too close to the shore. _A striking picture,_ Viktor thinks. There is a beauty, harsh as it may be, to the contrast of blood red against the pale blue hue the water has taken on - a tribute to the clear skies above, no doubt. 

“The largest garden,” the Second Son says, and Viktor briefly wonders if all the Second Son can speak in is a whisper. “We are celebrating the coming of the peace treaty.” Meaning, soft and insistent, underneath a harmless statement - and Viktor desperately wishes that he could ask the correct questions of his mother. 

“I see,” Viktor mutters, even if he really does not. “Shall I change?” 

The Second Son pushes the lotus towards the center of the pond, and rises, eyes roving up and down Viktor. A hot flash of… _something_ blazes through him, and Viktor surreptitiously straightens the edge of his cotton tunic. “Perhaps,” is the answer. “Silk may be best.” 

“I can only promise the formal wear from the North.” Viktor walks beside the Second Son as he cuts a way through the swathes of servants and staff rushing around to finish preparations for the reception in the garden. “Silk is often too thin to stand against the cold.” 

The Second Son stares at him, blank and cold as always. “We would rather you not die of a heat stroke,” he says, and Viktor blinks, barely catching the tail end of a vanishing smile. But the Second Son catches him staring, and the cool gaze is back, the lines around his eyes tight. “I would ask a servant to fetch clothing for you.” 

“That would be preferable, thank you.” He nods, and watches as the Second Son bobs his head in a tense farewell, sweeping his robes around him in a wave of crimson and gold. The servants do not part where he walks, but rather, he glides in the negative space between them, silent as a shadow. The gait of an assassin, perhaps. But the Second Son does not seem to be one capable of such things, and with a choked laugh, Viktor shakes his head, and walks back to his rooms.

* * *

**MAY 31ST, XX17. RESIDENTIAL QUARTERS, HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

 

 

Yuuri’s hands are trembling by the time a servant comes back to him with Nikiforov’s measurements. 

“The fabric, milord?” Yuuko asks, tucking her hair behind her ears as she bends over Yuuri’s desk, scrawling down measurements with a quick and steady hand - though the steady nature of her hands by far makes her the best seamstress in the employ of the royal family. “Yuuri. Yuuri?” Brows furrowed, she dismisses the lingering servant, and abandons her half finished sketch. Kneeling at his feet, Yuuko places her impossibly steady hands on his knees. “Yuuri, _breathe._ ” 

“I can’t,” he gasps, and oh - there are the tears, hot and wet, dripping onto the delicate silk of his _hakama._ “I’m _terrified,_ Yuuko, I -” There are no proper words to describe the terror that courses through Yuuri when Nikiforov is near - and the loathing that comes when he does manage to forget the fear, enough to snipe at him, not too much unlike he does with Phichit or Mari. 

Yuuko’s grip tightens on Yuuri’s knees, ignoring the way the heavy black silk of the _hakama_ pants crumples beneath her hands. “What do you need? Yuuri, please, you must look at me,” she pleads. “Tell me what you need.” 

“ _Phichit,_ ” he moans, “I need - I need -” But Phichit is with the Healers right now and not even Yuuri can be so selfish as to tear him away from that, not when Phichit’s hopes of walking without a cane again rely solely on the strength of his will, and his commitment to the grueling hours he must put in with the Healers. 

“I understand,” Yuuko says - but she _doesn’t._ It’s not fair that Yuuri can’t handle this by himself, that he can’t seem to function on most days without turning into a scared child, cowering from the nonexistent monsters in the back of his closets, not fair that he has to drag Phichit into this when Phichit already flung himself headfirst into the war - so young and so fragile - and nearly lost everything in the process. “I’ll go run and fetch him. Stay here.” She pushes herself to her feet and takes off running, hair a chestnut ribbon behind her. 

“Yuuri - _oh._ Oh _Yuuri_ ,” a voice croons. It is warm and buttery through the silence and static, with a rounded accent the Second Son knows cannot come from Caldera. “I’m sorry,” the voice apologizes, coming closer. 

Trembling arms hold him close, and this voice - this man - smells of sandalwood and sweat, the cotton of his robe damp to the touch. The Second Son does not struggle against the hold, silent and malleable, allowing this man to bring him close and card shaky fingers through the tangle of his hair. It’s a melancholy sort of comfort, the Second Son thinks, and breathes in this man’s scent. A vulnerable position - but something tells him that this person can be trusted. 

“There you go, deep breaths,” the voice murmurs, and the shuffling of feet behind them makes the Second Son want to lift up his head, but a warm hand presses him deeper into the crook of the voice’s neck. “Ignore that, deep breaths.” 

Yuuri presses his face deeper into the curve where Phichit’s neck meets his shoulder and takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry,” he says, muffled and weak. 

“Oh Yuuri,” Phichit laughs, sad and rough, “don’t be.” 

Yuuko looms nearby the both of them as Yuuri breathes into the crook of Phichit's neck, and as he pulls away, she gives him a small, tired smile. "Better?" She asks, running a hand through her hair. 

"Mmm." Phichit's hands are still in his, and a hot bout of shame wells up from deep within him. "I'm sorry," he says, voice faint and smile weak. "I'm certain that you need to get back to the Healer, don't you." 

Phichit shakes his head. "I was running overtime today anyways - Guang Hong is glad to see _me_ go, no doubt." He winks at Yuuri. "I've barely seen you around, as of late! Tell me how you've been." His voice is bubbly and light, but the tight, trembling grip that Phichit keeps around Yuuri's knees is telling enough. 

Yuuri pats a portion of the bed. "You should sit down. We'll talk while I finish up with Yuuko." 

"Ah. I'm afraid I'm getting old, Yuuri. Ugh. _Old_ ," Phichit laments. "Before you know it I'll have lost my hair, and my skin will be spotted and wrinkled. You'll have to learn to manage without my luminous beauty, I'm afraid." He winks at Yuuko, who smothers her giggles in the palms of her hands. 

"Ha, ha," Yuuri deadpans, leaning into Phichit. "Old man or not, you're still my best friend." 

"I should hope so," Phichit says, elbowing Yuuri in the side. "Like _hell_ you're getting rid of me that easily." 

Yuuri laughs, and it feels easier than anything has in a good while. Phichit grins as well, and Yuuri finds war hasn't changed his friend's smile - as miraculous and unbelievable as that might be. Yuuko shakes her head. 

"Well, Yuuri, we're just about done with this. Let me show you the design, and you can tell me if you have a fabric preference." Brushing nonexistent dirt off the pale green silk of her robe, Yuuko steps over Phichit's discarded crutches, and sets her design book atop Yuuri's lap. 

"I thought to incorporate parts of Northern Water Tribe wear - well. What we've seen of it on Nikiforov -" 

" _Nikiforov?_ " Phichit interrupts, voice hard. "You can't mean -" 

" _Yes_ , that Nikiforov," Yuuko snaps. "It's in the name of a peace treaty." Her hackles are raised, and Yuuri can feel the tremble of Phichit's arms against his sides. Phichit and Yuuko are both hurricanes - forces equivalent to natural disasters, bottled up into human form. Having them clash has never ended well. 

"Enough." Yuuri cuts in, voice quiet and firm. "The war is over now. I don't - _and I can't_ \- fully trust Nikiforov, but as of now, he is a guest of the Royal Family. We must treat him as such, regardless of personal feelings." He nudges Phichit, and silently, hopes that the apology comes through clear enough. 

Phichit sighs gustily. "I don't like it," he admits. "I don't like it one bit. But Nikiforov is an...honorable man. Fearsome, certainly, but I..." he trails off, eyes a million miles away. "Be safe, Yuuri." Phichit grips his arms. "Keep your guard up, no matter how honorable I, or anyone tells you Nikiforov is." 

Yuuri gently loosens Phichit's grip on his arms, clasping his hands in his. "I will," he promises. "It's my duty." 

Phichit shakes his head in the way that normally precedes his usual rant of - " _duty be damned yuuri, do what is best for you_ ," - but Yuuri shakes his head. _Not now._

"Sorry. Continue, Yuuko?" 

Yuuko raises a silent eyebrow at the both of them, but shakes her head. "No layers of fur, of course. But I was thinking that a blue fabric, as opposed to the traditional crimson might be more...symbolic." 

Yuuri nods. "Use gold accents rather than silver," he murmurs. Politics are strange games, in which even a choice in color screams intent. Best not to risk anything - especially with the Summer Court as volatile as it is without Mari's grounding presence. "Maybe a chrysanthemum pattern as well." 

With this, Yuuri might as well be branding Nikiforov as a part - or property - of the Royal Family, but at this point, that gives him the sort of political leverage he knows that he cannot give up this early in the game. 

"Aright then," Yuuko says, tongue between her teeth as she notes down Yuuri's changes. "I'll run this down to my workshop. Am I to send Hamuko to you, or Nikiforov?" 

"Nikiforov," Yuuri says. He does not know if he can handle being in Nikiforov's presence both before the Court and for the long time during without driving himself insane. "Send a servant that knows how to arrange a formal _hakama_ as well. Chances are that Nikiforov won't know how to." 

"Mhm. Hamuko it is, then," Yuuko says. "I'm off. Be safe, Yuuri." Leaning down, she presses a quick kiss to his forehead, and as Yuuri stares after her, he tries to close his eyes, and pretend, that for just a moment, he is a child once more, in the gardens with Yuuko, Takeshi and Phichit, the sky clear of rain, and the war a million miles away. 

"You'll be alright," Phichit promises. "Call me and I'll come, you know that."

Yuuri nods - but they both know that the problem has never been with Phichit being able to come, but rather with Yuuri never being able to call for him when he truly needs him. 

"Well," Phichit says, quiet. "We'll work on it."

“We’ll try,” Yuuri murmurs, and knows that trying has never been good enough.

* * *

**MAY 31ST, XX17. AMBASSADOR’S QUARTERS, HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

 

 

The gold chrysanthemums on the silk of the robes the servant delivers tell Viktor all he needs to know. Scowling at his reflection in the large mirror, long after the servant has left, Viktor fingers the fine silk _hakama,_ at the sea blue color of the fabric, and the mockingly golden tones of the chrysanthemum pattern. 

_A rose by any other name,_ he thinks, remembering a poem from one of Mother’s many books. Viktor’s pride is howling, wounded and furious at this blatant mark of ownership - how _rude,_ to mark him as property of the Royal Family, as if he is not the representative of his nation and her people, sent to seal peace between the two sovereigns. 

Shoving on the wooden sandals - _zori_ , the female servant had painstakingly explained - Viktor throws his door open, fuming quietly. This Second Son - how bold he grows, how _insolent._ As much as Viktor dislikes the title of boogeyman the Fire Nation has given him, it has served him well in the way of a grudging respect from the denizens of the Summer Court, yet this Second Son offers nothing but cold disdain. 

Striding through the halls of Hasetsu Palace as fast as the zori will allow him, Viktor searches for the Second Son, like a man possessed - if only to stumble upon him, quiet in by the pond in the gardens they had met in earlier in the morning. _A million years ago_ , Viktor thinks. 

The young General from the final battle is beside him, in a rich maroon robe, leaning heavily on a gleaming wooden crutches. His hair is longer than it was, on the ice and amidst the biting chill, but Viktor recognizes the teakwood hue of his skin, and the subtle strength that the General carries himself with, despite his injuries. The Second Son, standing steady beside him, is in different robes now, the long train of his outermost robe a wine red, with a pattern of golden chrysanthemums and dragonflies decorating the silk. The wayward strands of his ink dark hair are gathered together with a small hair clip, glittering gold ornaments dangling from it in the faint breeze. Their heads are leant together, the General’s hand resting on the Second Son’s shoulder, and together, they make a strikingly peaceful image. 

It is not enough to quell Viktor’s fury. 

But he stays silent - a warrior’s virtue is patience, after all, and with wide eyes, Viktor watches as the Second Son shakily raises his free arm, and with it, the droplets of dew lingering on the cattails and plants beside the pond ice over and rise. 

Heart pounding with this realization, Viktor slips away, quickly and quietly. There is one surviving waterbender in Caldera - and he wonders, sharp and cruel, if he can truly call the Second Son as such.

* * *

**MAY 31ST, XX17. SUIZEN-JI JOJU-EN, HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

 

 

Yuuri harbors an intense dislike for the Summer Court, but the _Suizen-ji Joju-en_ and her flowers are enough to tide him over. The magnolia are blossoming, pinpricks of delicate pink amidst the forest green foliage. It’s a terrible shame that the robes of the courtesan lingering near them clash with them - the rust orange of their _furisode_ is garishly harsh against the pale pink of the petals. 

He wrinkles his nose, beneath the veil and turns away to look for Nikiforov. It isn't as if he has to search long and hard for him, however. The platinum of Nikiforov’s hair is distinctive amidst the dark haired common masses, and the blue silk of his _hakama_ even more so. The man in question is speaking quietly with Lady Yuan, face carefully emotionless, stance tight and telling. 

_Why send a warrior to do the job of a diplomat?_ Yuuri wishes he could ask the Northern Tsar. _Clearly, he doesn't quite know what to do here - why risk peace to give a dangerous man power like this?_ In the end, Yuuri knows that, just as the many, _many_ warriors that have come and gone before him, Nikiforov will never truly be able to adjust to peace, nor be able to slip fully into the role of diplomat as his Nation might need him to. Even now, he carries himself like a predator, body coiled and tense, ready to strike at any moment, even if Lady Yuan is ignorant to this fact. _You cannot so easily train a dog out from old tricks,_ he thinks, bitter. 

Before he knows it, he’s walked over to where Lady Yuan and Nikiforov are sequestered. “My apologies, Lady Yuan. I’m afraid I must steal Ambassador Nikiforov away from you,” he demurs, expression blank, even behind the veil. 

“Oh, of course. Important matters, I’m certain?” She simpers, crooking an eyebrow - clearly prying - but Yuuri just nods shallowly, and beckons Nikiforov away. 

“What is it?” Nikiforov asks, out of Lady Yuan’s earshot. His tone is frosty, neither lilting nor mocking, as Yuuri has become accustomed to. 

“Take care _not_ to strangle any courtesans,” Yuuri answers, tone deceptively light. “With what strides you've made, it would be a shame to see them reversed.” Does this count as niceties? Is this playing nice? Not for the first time, Yuuri digs his nails into his hands, blinking at the clarity that comes with the welcome sting, and laments his confusion wherever Nikiforov seems to be involved. 

“Perhaps not _strangle_ , so much as suffocate.” Nikiforov’s response is silky, voice dangerous and dark. “I’m certain that you would understand that, right?” 

The summer air is balmy on Yuuri’s skin, but that doesn't stop the cold that flashes down his spine. “What are you insinuating?” 

“You know what waterbenders are capable, I’m certain?” This corner of the garden is dark, shaded by foliage and overgrown bushes, and Nikiforov’s eyes gleam a ghostly blue in the scant moonlight. 

Yuuri blinks behind the veil. _Of course,_ he wants to say, _what sort of idiot do you think I am? Do you think I’ve stuck my head in the sand this entire time?_ But the words clump together in his throat, sticky and suffocating, and Yuuri says nothing, as always. 

“Did you know, that they say the Fire Lord before your father died of a stroke? They say he suffocated because of it, but I have to wonder. People will always ask questions, speculate, but when people wondered if a waterbender did it the response was always the same.” Nikiforov turns, pins him with a look, victorious and knowing. “There are no surviving waterbenders in Caldera - in the entirety of the Fire Nation, really.” 

“And?” His heart is lodged in his throat, and Yuuri knew, he _knew_ that this entire thing was a horrid idea, but was it too much to hope, that after keeping this secret for almost a decade now, that he could hide it for a bit longer? (deep down, yuuri knows that this secret is akin to a ticking time bomb - each year, he loses a bit more of that iron clad control, each year his bending goes more and more haywire - but he had hoped for a few more years of secrets and peace without prosecution.)

“Unless, of course, there was a waterbender in the Royal Family,” Nikiforov all but purrs. “I’m certain your parents went to great lengths to cover it up. The veil, the silks. The _lies._ ” Nikiforov tugs on the gossamer of Yuuri’s veil, fingers the wine red silk of his robes. “Tell me, did they beat you? Push you and push you until you felt the only way out was to hide - or, to kill the man instigating it all?” 

Pressure is building in Yuuri’s stomach, red staining and bleeding into his vision, and he can feel that frightening, monstrous cold, as sharp and deadly as a blade in his hand, building and swirling out of control as his panic grows. “Don’t speak of things you don't understand, Nikiforov,” he bites out. 

“What do I not understand?” Nikiforov answers, voice still silky calm. “Unless, of course, I have it wrong? Can I even call you the Second Son? Are you even the son of the Fire Lord?” The quirk of his lips scream what the courtesans of the Summer Court dare not. _Bastard son,_ they whisper when they think he cannot hear, _how dare she, that common born whore?_

The cold is harsher now, a dagger in Yuuri’s hand, and not even the bite of his fingernails digging into the palm of his hands is enough to reign the chill back in. “ _Don’t,_ ” Yuuri hisses. 

“Have I hit a nerve?” Nikiforov taunts, and Yuuri is cold, cold, _cold._ “The stain upon the Royal Family, a bastard who murdered his own grandfather.” 

Yuuri is cold, and he is furious, for Nikiforov will never _know_ the fear of living with Grandfather, never know the bitter chill of his harsh words, nor the sting of a cane across his arms, or the lash of a whip across the back. Grandfather had said that he does not remember why they went to war, but Yuuri will always know that the reasons for war are not so easily forgotten - less so by a man cruel enough to delight in the fear and prosecution of an innocent people. 

_But that does not mean I killed him,_ Yuuri tells himself, in the same mantra that has echoed from Mari’s mouth, to the place between his ears, over and over and over again since the day of Grandfather’s death. _I did not kill him._

“Tell me, did you enjoy his final breaths? Another game, played to complet-” Nikiforov cuts off, choked and gasping mid sentence, and it takes Yuuri a minute to realize that the chill is all around them now, free at last. The overgrown foliage has withered around them, a hand of water holding Nikiforov by the neck against the stone walls. The cold is _free_ , and for a terrible moment, Yuuri thinks that he might weep with how alive he feels. It is everything, yet nothing like how Mari described her bending to him, late at night, across her candlelit childhood room. There is no overwhelming heat, no sensation of sunlight and summertime, but rather, an all consuming chill, and the fresh scent of winter, the pine and the frost. 

The horror returns, and Yuuri is afraid, as he always is. The fear shudders through his bones, rattles his teeth, and sets every hair standing, straight to attention. The water bursts, and the chill flies back into him, settling reluctantly beneath his skin once more, claws biting and sharp as it dies down. Yuuri thanks his lucky stars that the light barely reaches this corner of _Suizen-ji Joju-en,_ and stares at Nikiforov, crumpled on the ground, wet and gasping for air. 

Heart in his throat, beating erratically and unsure, Yuuri gives in to the rabbit hearted urge to flee, and with a swirl of wine red silk, flees into the night. 

 

_It’s over, it’s over, it’s over. There’s nowhere to run. It’s over._

* * *

Viktor’s pride is stung and shot, crumpled and dying in the secluded corner of the gardens, as he rubs at his bruising throat and gasps for air. _First the claiming, now this? Defeated by someone who can’t even control their own bending._ He smiles, a sardonic twist of the lips. 

_Mother, I’ve been wandering down the wrong path this entire time, haven’t I?_

He does not need her here to know that her answer would be a definite yes.

* * *

Мама,

 _You were right - no surprise from me, but I suppose that some part of me wished otherwise, and kept wandering down this rickety path. Tonight has ended in a humiliation that has opened my eyes to this, and now, I think I have the first question._

Мама, _why can the son of the Fire Lord bend water?_

 

_Yours,_

 

_Viktor_

* * *

Viten’ka,

 

_How pleased it makes me that you’ve finally decided to pull your head from your ass, son. Politics was originally a mother’s game, so by a mother’s questions you must abide. You’ve just begun to play the game right, Viten’ka - and this Second Son of yours is a long veteran. Playing the long game will be difficult, as I’m certain you’ve discovered. Perhaps more so, seeing as Nikolai’s grandson will be arriving in a week’s time to Caldera. More pieces can often muddle the board, so I will warn you to always keep an eye on your main objective._

 

_Ignore the ramblings of an aging woman. As for your first question - look to the spirits, zvyozdochka. They will have the answers you hope for. Of course, if you feel that you cannot wait for the oft long-coming advice from your ancestors, ask the Second Son himself. He may know as well._

 

 _Keep looking for the right questions, Viten’ka. Of course, the Equinox is to be held in the Fire Nation this year - the first time in nearly two centuries, can you believe? - and I will be there. A month’s time,_ zvyozdochka. _Perhaps that should serve as your deadline. I imagine that you still work better under pressure._

 

_Four weeks, Viten’ka. Play the game._

 

_Love,_

 

_Irena Mikhailova._

* * *


	2. part ii. peace.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Second Son looks up now, a small smile curling over his lips, slow and sly. 'Even before the first pawn is moved, the game has already begun. This is how the Summer Court functions.' He rolls up the trailing sleeves of today’s _haori_ \- indigo blue silk, and a pattern of what Viktor thinks may be cranes - and moves a pawn. 'Even before the gatherings begin, the game will start. It’s in what you wear. How you carry yourself. The people you enter the room with.' A different smile, smaller and shadowed spreads shallowly over the Second Son’s lips. 'Everything has meaning, Nikiforov.'"
> 
> an alliance is formed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand the final part!!! i hope this??lives up to your expectations. again, this was. _such_ a fun project to take part in, and it was such fun to work with yinseii. her art is amazing, ya'll. pure genius. 
> 
> so, with this, i bring _and this is the wonder_ to its coda, and hope that within it you find the solace you seek. 
> 
> enjoy!

**part ii. peace.**

**JUNE 1ST, XX17. INNER GARDENS, HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

Midnight finds Yuuri beside the pond in the private garden, dressed in a cotton _jinbei._ The water ripples beneath his fingers, even though Yuuri does not touch the surface of the pond. Fatigue weighs him down. He has not left the confines of his apartments while the sun still shines for two days now - and the balmy nighttime air is a blessing. 

“I figured I’d find you here.” The accent is unmistakable, and Yuuri tenses, refusing to turn and look Nikiforov in the eye. “Can I sit?” 

“If you must,” Yuuri bites out, voice taut. “Please, don’t let me stop you.” 

“I’ll stand if it makes you more comfortable.” Strangely enough, there is little mocking in Nikiforov’s voice, and no rustle of fabric to signal that he had actually sat down beside Yuuri. “Will you hear me out?” 

“I’m in no position to stop you,” he snaps. “You know. Tell me what you want and leave.” 

“I came to apologize.” 

_“Apologize?_ ” Yuuri swivels around, eyes wild and wary. “ _Apologize?_ You -” there are no words to describe the fury and fear Yuuri feels right now, but he stays, tired of fear, tired of running, staring Nikiforov down with tired eyes. 

The look Nikiforov gives him in response is just as wary, but in a way that does not speak of fear, but rather of apprehension. _He’s laying himself bare,_ Yuuri realises numbly. _Vulnerable._

A part of him screams out in mercy for him, but another, darker - the Second Son - curbs that part, and urges Yuuri to take what he is due. 

“I spoke without thinking,” he admits, and Yuuri scowls. 

“Yes, and false apologies will get you nowhere.” The look on Nikiforov’s face sends a jolt of vicious satisfaction through Yuuri. “Do you even understand the magnitude of what you’ve accused me of? I might hate my grandfather, but to kill him?” 

“I-”

“Do you even understand what could happen if someone had heard us? You could have ruined _everything_.” Yuuri feels as if all his rage and fear is bubbling over. 

“You were losing control.” Nikiforov is resolute, and he stands, eyes flinty. “You are losing control. I can’t - I can’t do much in regards to what happened last night,” he shrugs at this, shoulders shuddering and unsteady. “But let me help you - let me teach you how to control your bending.” 

Yuuri feels his eye twitch. Then his hands, and then the tug, deep within his gut, yearning and uncertain. The small things that Yuuri has bent - barring last night’s fiasco - have always left him feeling weightless. Free and floating, like his last tether to the Earth is frayed and loose. _Would that really be so bad?_ Yuuri thinks. How much - how much worse could it be? Yuuri is already a monster. 

“Let me help you.” _And he looks so eager too._ Nikiforov’s eyes are wide, earnest, and oh so serious. “Please.” 

Sighing, Yuuri brushes dust and dirt from his jinbei, and meets Nikiforov’s eyes dead on. “A trade, then,” he compromises. “I will teach you how to deal with the Summer Court, and all the politics that entails, and you’ll teach me to waterbend.” 

Nikiforov holds out his hand, and Yuuri takes it. “It’s a deal.” 

They shake on it, under the midnight moon, and oddly, Yuuri feels as if he’s bound himself to something else entirely. 

“Meet me in the garden in two day’s time,” Yuuri says, after. “We can begin then.” 

“Begin?” Viktor looks to him, searching, looking for _something._ “Begin what?” 

“Tutoring,” he replies simply. “The sooner you learn to deal with the Court, the better for both of us, I think.”

* * *

**JUNE 6TH, XX17. CHIGUSA CHIDORI, HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

“A game of chess?” Viktor stares down the gleaming lacquer board, and fingers the quartz game pieces. Light filters through the stones, dancing on the walls, watery and ephemeral. “How does this -” 

“Play along,” the Second Son replies. “Remember our deal.” He reaches across the board, rearranging the chess pieces with a steady hand. Bored, Viktor toys with a pawn, subtly impressed with the slight weight to the pieces. 

Viktor desperately wants to whine like a petulant child, but, because he is a grown man, settles instead, for slouching in his chair, eying the movement of the chess pieces with a lazy sort of awareness. 

“Sit up,” the Second Son chides, never looking up from the chessboard. “The game has already begun, Nikiforov.” 

That catches his attention. “What?” 

The Second Son looks up now, a small smile curling over his lips, slow and sly. “Even before the first pawn is moved, the game has already begun. This is how the Summer Court functions.” He rolls up the trailing sleeves of today’s _haori_ \- indigo blue silk, and a pattern of what Viktor thinks may be cranes - and moves a pawn. “Even before the gatherings begin, the game will start. It’s in what you wear. How you carry yourself. The people you enter the room with.” A different smile, smaller and shadowed spreads shallowly over the Second Son’s lips. “Everything has meaning, Nikiforov.” 

Viktor moves his knight forwards, and nods at the Second Son’s raised eyebrow. “Call me Viktor, then,” he suggests, leaning backwards in his seat. 

“A bold move,” the Second Son murmurs. “...Viktor.” Leaning over the lacquered board, the Second Son moves his knight as well. “I’m Yuuri.” 

_Your move,_ the quirk of Yuuri’s lips seems to say.

* * *

**JUNE 9TH, XX17. PIANDAO PORT, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

Viktor finds himself back at Piandao Port a few days later, Yuuri standing beside him, and the customary retinue trailing only a few steps behind. 

“It feels rather empty without the lights and festival booths,” he comments. It is almost like the soul of the port has gone to sleep - waiting, waiting to come back to life. Waiting for a single spark to set the whole glittering affair off once more. 

Yuuri’s expressions are impossible to make out behind the sheer veil, but a small sigh moves the silk, and Viktor catches sight of pursed lips as the veil flutters. “It does,” he agrees. “But when the Solstice comes, it’ll all be back.” 

“Maybe this time you’ll take me around?” Viktor suggests, tone light. He smiles at Yuuri, who turns to look at him, perplexed. “It’ll be a good bonding experience.” 

Yuuri laughs quietly, hand hovering in front of the veil, as if trying to cover his mouth. “Something tells me you just want to get out of more politics.” 

“Guilty, guilty,” he concedes, lacing his fingers together behind his back. “You have to admit, the Summer Court gets tedious.” 

“Mm,” Yuuri hums, reaching into his _haori_ for a small folding fan. A small charm - a wrought silver _koi_ \- hangs from it, delicate details painted onto the _koi_ in copper and pale gold. 

“That’s pretty. Is it yours?” Viktor eyes the fan, at the slight slip of navy blue paper that he can see through the dare wood. “May I see it?” Yuuri blinks, and presses the fan into Viktor’s hand, tucking his hands back into the wide sleeves of his _haori._

“It’s for your Tsar’s grandson. A small token from the Fire Lord,” he explains, and Viktor nods, turning the small charm over in his hand. The charm is cold to the touch, leaching the warmth from his hands, despite spending time pressed up against Yuuri’s side in the _haori. How cold he must run,_ Viktor wonders. _How unbearable must that be?_

“A _koi_?” He asks instead, tamping his questions down, and locking his confusion away. Viktor knows them as the guardians of the Moon and Sea - Луна and море - but they may as well mean something else to the Fire Nation. 

“Yes. They’re sacred to the Water Tribes, right?” When Viktor nods, Yuuri hums beneath his breath. “As well, a _koi_ is a symbol for children - they stand for perseverance,” he explains. “It seemed fitting.” 

Yura _is_ a child, but Viktor isn’t so certain how he’s going to react to being called one. Fingering the _koi_ charm once more, Viktor decides that watching this entire scene play out will be...interesting.

* * *

**JUNE 9TH, XX17. HAROU SEA, FIRE NATION.**

Yuri thinks he hates boats, but he’s too busy being sick over the side to really tell. 

“We’re almost there.” There are footsteps behind him, and Yuri retches a bit more over the side of the boat in a feeble response. 

Beka sidles up beside him, stoic as ever, and Yuri scowls at him, face pallid and bangs plastered across his forehead. “How are you so… _ugh_!” Sticking his tongue out at Beka, Yuri slides down against the side of the boat, and sticks his head between his knees. “This _sucks_.” 

Sitting beside him, Beka props his chin up on his knees. “There’s ginger candy in the gallery if you think you need it,” he offers. “It helps.” 

“Ugh, don’t talk about food,” Yuri mutters, staring at a small hole in the wood of the deck. His stomach is churning furiously, like seeing how much Yuri can puke over a two week journey is some sort of competition. “How far off are we?” 

“Captain Sotnikova says we should be there in about an hour at the pace we’re keeping.” Beka stands up, hauling Yuri up with him. 

“ _Ugh_.” Yuri groans. “I hope stupid Viktor got even sicker than me.” 

Beka shrugs, face blank as always, but Yuri knows he’s laughing. On the inside. Probably. 

Scowling, Yuri scuffs his foot against the deck, skulking off to the stateroom. He _really_ hopes they’re not going to be staying in Caldera for too long.

* * *

**JUNE 9TH, XX17. PIANDAO PORT, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

The boat pulls in, blue sails taut and proud in the day’s strong wind, and just over the port side of the boat, Yuuri can see a small blob of blond hair, barely tall enough to make it over the top of the hull. 

_The Tsar’s grandson,_ Father had said, face weary and eyes bright behind a sheaf of papers. 

_But not his heir?_ Yuuri asked, lips pursed. _If not the grandson, then who?_

 _We’ll have to see,_ Father replied, setting his papers aside. _Nikolai is getting old. He will tell us soon enough._

 _On the Solstice?_ Rather dramatic, Yuuri remembers wanting to say. _Quite the time to make an announcement,_ he says instead. Tact is something Yuuri was born with - unlike Mari, who had to learn not to continuously shove her foot into her mouth. 

_That’s politics,_ Father laughed, crows feet crinkling around his eyes. _Now, I believe you have places to be._

 _Politics, indeed,_ Yuuri thinks, staring at the blob of blond hair that is the Tsar’s grandson. _An eight year old child doesn’t really have a place in politics, I suppose._ “He’s here,” he remarks, quiet and mild. Beside him, Viktor nods, handing the folding fan back. Yuuri taps the fan against his hand, once, twice, and then slides it back into his _haori_ , for fear of breaking it. 

Viktor surges forwards as the boat’s ramp is lowered, pushing past an influx of sailors and dock hands. “Halt,” Yuuri says firmly, holding a hand out to stop his retinue from following him. 

“Sir,” Takeshi begins, stepping forwards. 

“We risk startling the Prince. Stay,” Yuuri stresses the word, tucking his hands back into the sleeves of his haori. 

“As you say,” Takeshi mutters. 

Yuuri nods, and tries to convey an _it’ll be alright, _but telepathy isn’t in his meager skillset. As Takeshi bows, Yuuri takes off, weaving between the sailors and dock hands, eyes trained firmly on the glint of weak sunlight off the platinum of Viktor’s hair. _Unusual,_ he thinks, _to see colors like that in hair.___ There are no hair colors as pale as the ones found in the Northern Water Tribe, and they stand out not unlike a beacon, against the blacks and chestnut browns of the people of the Fire Nation. It’s enough to make people stop and stare - though in recognition, or fear, Yuuri cannot tell. 

Viktor looks over, eyes locking with Yuuri’s, and with a close-lipped smile, he waves him over. Ducking under a swinging wooden beam, he moves to Viktor’s side. The blond boy beside him - the Tsar’s grandson - scowls at him under shorn fringe, and the taller boy beside him, dark haired and silent, turns an impassive look Yuuri’s way. “Second Son, if I could introduce Yuri Plisetsky, and his guard, Otabek Altin.” 

“Welcome to Caldera,” Yuuri says. Reaching into his _haori_ , he pulls out the delicate folding fan, holding it out to Yuri. The younger boy eyes it suspiciously for a moment, before reaching out at taking it into his own hands. He turns it over, fingering the dangling charm off the end of the fan. “The Fire Lord sends his regards, and apologizes that he could not make it.” 

“That’s fine,” Yuri mutters. “S’not like we won’t be seeing him later, right?” 

Yuuri turns to look at Viktor - and from the look on his face, this startling lack of court manners is par for the course, it would seem. Otabek, the guard - who must be no older than a child himself - is chiding Yuri softly. “A child guard?” Yuuri asks underneath his breath. 

Viktor looks over at him, a wry smile quirked over his lips. “The members of the Altin family have always served as guards to the Tsar and his family. Otabek is technically Yura’s assigned guard - though he’s still not done with his training.” 

Yuuri nods, quiet and pensive. “He looks more of an earthbender than a waterbender.” His skin does not have the same milky undertones as most members of the Northern Water Tribe that Yuuri has seen - rather his skin is dusky, earth hued, aside from the patch of what must be discolored scar tissue by his temple, and his hair, still wild, despite being cropped short. 

“His mother is from Ba-Sing-Se - Otabek takes after her.” Viktor nods towards the boys. “He’s an earthbender.”

Yuuri supposes that would explain it - though the waterbenders of the scattered Southern tribes tend to be dark skinned, they still retain the characteristic blue and sea-glass green eyes. There is no trace of that on Otabek’s face - it looks more as if a heavy handed painter colored his features in tones of the earth and left little space for his father’s fairer blood to surface. 

“I see,” he says, and that’s the end of that. “We should make our way back to the palace - it feels like it might rain soon.” And this awareness can only be chalked up to Viktor’s lessons. The coming rain prickles across his back, the sudden awareness of this… _mass_ of water, somewhere over the horizon, gathering in the stormy clouds above, and darkening the sky as it gathers, closer and closer. 

Viktor smiles, surprise flashing across his eyes. “Wow, you really _do_ pick up quick,” he drawls. “Yura, Otabek, we’ve got to get going before the rain.” 

Yuri scowls - and briefly, Yuuri wonders if this little boy has any other setting other than blatant displeasure - and blows his straight fringe up with what has to be the most put-upon sigh ever sighed. Yuuri is _really_ glad for his veil - this is wholly amusing, but he’s not willing to give up his composure for that. “Can’t you just bend the stupid rain?” The boy asks, still fiddling with the fan. 

“Ah, but shielding so many for such a long time takes so much _energy,_ Yura,” Viktor teases, delight dancing across his fine features as Yuri’s face grows steadily more and more red. 

“Sir, the Fire Lord requests you return post-haste,” Takeshi butts in, and Yuuri has never been more grateful for him. “The Summer Court is gathering tonight, and his Majesty would like to greet the Prince beforehand.” 

“Thank you, Takeshi.” Tucking his hands back into his _haori_ as a sudden chill washes over the port, Yuuri motions for his guard to set off towards the palace. “We should be going,” he tells Viktor. Yuri glares at him, and steps away from the other man, before slinking off to Otabek’s side. 

“He’ll come around,” Viktor whispers, halfway to Hasetsu Palace. “He’s always prickly at first with the people he likes.” 

_“Shut up!” _Smaller Yuri shrieks, rushing up and pounding a fist against Viktor’s back. “You dumb _baldy _.”____

“I am _not_ bald!” Viktor gasps, hand coming up to the back of his head. 

Otabek sighs, with what can only be described as resigned solemnity, and despairingly, Yuuri realizes that this must be a common thing between them.

* * *

**JUNE 9TH, XX17. CHOWADEN RECEPTION HALL, HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

It’s raining outside, so the Summer Court is held indoors that night - the main ballroom is decked out, lights strung along the sides, the chandelier holding a captured bolt of lightning, flickering and furious within it. It’s the kind of opulence Yuuri has come to expect, having grown up with it all, but little Yuri seems less than pleased. 

He’s wearing formal wear from up North, a navy blue jacket, with silver buttons that snap shut all the way up the collar, which just barely brushes underneath his chin. It’s a far cry from the loose tunic and bound pants Yuuri has seen both Viktor and little Yuri in before. The entire outfit looks stiff and uncomfortable, in all honesty. 

“Is this your first time in a gathering like this?” Yuuri sidles up beside little Yuri, taking a glass of water from a passing servant. “Here, drink. It’s humid today.” 

Little Yuri looks at him with evident suspicion, taking the water with a cautious hand. He swirls it around, as if looking for poison, and Yuuri, who feels his heart drop for a moment, chooses to regard this display with a quiet sort of awareness. The boy is _eight_ , for Spirit’s sake. He’s not going to poison an eight year old - but he will stand by and let the boy do what he needs to make himself feel safe. 

The war of his forefathers shouldn’t affect how he treats an innocent. 

Once that’s all said and done, Yuri drinks, faster than Yuuri expects, and rolls the glass between his small palms. “Not really,” he mumbles. “We’ve got festivals, up North. Not...stuff like this.” _It’s boring_ goes unsaid, and though Yuuri waits for little Yuri to elaborate, nothing more is said between them. 

Music strikes up, and Yuuri has to go - Lady Yuan must be entertained for the night, as per Father’s orders, and there are courtesans to keep an eye on while Mari is away. She’ll want to know everything when she returns home. These are not new duties - Yuuri has been dancing to this tune for years now, but not for the first time, he feeling indescribably _heavy._ He’s tired of this game, though he will never admit such a thing aloud, and desperately, Yuuri wonders if everything would have been all the more easy if he’d just been killed, like every other waterbender in Caldera. 

The last thing he would have known would have been Mari’s scream, and the shock, vivid across his parents’ faces - and the smash of Grandfather’s cane, against his hands and back. _Monster,_ would have been the last thing he’d known, and Yuuri does not know if this impossible weight or that painful death is the worse of the two.

* * *

**JUNE 12TH, XX17. INNER GARDENS, HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

“ _Concentrate,_ ” Viktor snaps, tapping his foot impatiently. The moon is not yet full, at a brisk breeze rustles through the innermost garden, the full scent of earth after rain coming with it. “You can do better than this.” 

Yuuri growls, low and frustrated. “I _am_ concentrating,” he hisses, incensed. “I can’t _do_ this.” He throws his hands up in the air, and spins away from the still tranquil lake. “I’ve never - I’ve never really _used_ my bending intentionally before.” 

“But your trick in the garden - wasn’t that intentional?” Viktor asks, raking a hand through his hair. His sleeves are pinned to the shoulders, and his face is flushed with frustration. Yuuri feels as if this is unwarranted, because, honestly - if anyone should be red and pissed, it should be _him._

“Small things - things that don’t take a lot of concentration I can manage. But it’s not like I’ve ever _wanted_ to,” Yuuri spits, flopping backwards onto the grass. “Look, it’s probably not going to happen so can we just give up?”

Throwing himself down beside Yuuri, Viktor grabs his hands, and looks Yuuri dead in the eyes. “Would you give up on me just because I couldn’t understand how to do something the first time?” He queries, voice serious. 

“W-well, no, but that’s -” 

“Then have confidence that I won’t do that either,” Viktor demands. “You’re learning how to bend after what - seven, eight years of suppressing it? It’s going to be hard at first, I can’t make that easier, but _please._ I know that you can do this.” 

“I can’t,” Yuuri insists. “It’s - I should just stick to what I _do_ know how to do.” And it’s true - Yuuri has never been naturally talented in anything but knowing when to hold his tongue. He’s not like Viktor, who seems to take to new ideas like a fish to water. If he doesn’t get something at first, he has to try, try, and _try_ again. Can’t get it the first time? Or the second, third, or fourth? That’s fine. He’ll get it the hundredth time. _Eventually_. But every minute Yuuri spends, struggling to master this untameable _thing_ inside him is another chance that he could be caught in the act. A scandal like this could ruin his family. 

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, and it’s so soft, so gentle. “ _Please_.” The _try_ is left unsaid, and Yuuri wants to lie here, on the grass, and just forget for a moment. 

“Let’s just stay here for a little,” he begs. “I’ll try, but just...later.” With a soft tug, he brings Viktor down next to him, and they stay there, staring up at the sky. The half moon is silver in the sky, and in the silence of the night, Yuuri closes his eyes. In the silence, he can hear Viktor breathe in time with him, perfectly synced with the rustle of the leaves on the magnolia trees. 

_This and this and this_ , Yuuri thinks later, too tired to truly sleep, _this is the deepest secret that I will keep; this is the secret that nobody can know._

* * *

**JUNE 13TH, XX17. DIGNITARY QUARTERS, HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

Of all the _stupid,_ inane, _fucking things_ Yuri expected to put up with after arriving in Caldera, listening to stupid Viktor have some sort of… _crisis_ over Caldera’s stupid Second Son is not one of them. And also _not what he wants to put up with._ Ever. 

_“Stupid fucking Viktor,”_ he hisses, tossing a ball at Beka. And as much as Yuri really does enjoy Beka’s company - and as much as Beka is his best (and...only) friend, a small (that is a _lie._ it’s large. very, very large) part of him is utterly disappointed that the little red ball doesn’t hit him in the nose. Or the face. 

It’s another let down. A terrible, terrible let down. Beka catches it with deft fingers, and turns it over, face as blank as ever. 

“You shouldn’t curse,” Beka says, and tosses the ball back at Yuri. 

“I am _eight._ I can curse,” Yuri insists. “If stupid Viktor can curse, then I can curse, because anyone smarter than stupid Viktor can do what he does, and _better._ ” He shucks the ball back at Beka. 

Beka doesn’t reply, and Yuri squints. There’s a tinge of _that sounds super fucking fake, but...alright…_ that darts across Beka’s face, before he schools his face into a blank sort of mindlessness. 

“Just toss the _fucking_ ball!” Yuri squalls, resisting the urge to smother Beka with a pillow. “And don’t give me that _look_!” 

Beka tosses him the ball, and says, infuriatingly bland, “I’m not giving you a look.” And Yuri squeezes the ball tight, and thinks, _wow, it would be really easy to just reach over and smother Beka with a pillow right now._

Yuri also thinks that maybe, as an eight year old, he shouldn’t be contemplating the murder of his closest and only friend, but on the other hand, murder seems to be a valid answer to most of his problems. 

_“Yura!” **Like that one.**_ Turning around with a vicious taunt on the tip of his tongue, Yuri winds his arm back, and pitches the red ball _right into stupid fucking Viktor’s face._

“Get. _**Out!**_ ” Yuri shrieks. “I _don’t want to hear about your stupid fucking problems with that stupid Second Son!_ ” His face is bright red, and he’s breathing heavily. Beka’s eyes bore into the back of his neck and - “Don’t say it.” 

“You-” 

“ _Agh! Don’t say it!_ ” He begs, burying his face into his hands. 

“Wow,” is all Beka says instead. Yuri screams into his hands, and knows, with a frightening certainty that he wants to _murder_ Beka. 

“I hate you,” Yuri grumbles. 

Beka reaches over, and pats him on the head. Yuri screams into his hands, louder this time, desperately trying to drown out the sound of Beka laughing.

* * *

(song: red gold yesterday, LUCHS) 

**JUNE 14TH, XX17. INNER GARDENS, HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

Sweat drips down the column of Yuuri’s neck, and dimly, desperately, Viktor thinks, _this is how the world ends._ He should be focusing on the fact that Yuuri’s lips are flushed a bright pink - _no._ Not that either, but rather the steady stream of water being shakily molded between Yuuri’s hands. 

“There we go,” he coaxes, stepping closer. It’s hard to miss the way that Yuuri goes rigid the minute Viktor slots his hands over Yuuri’s own, the way that he seems to shudder every time Viktor gets even an inch into this self imposed bubble Yuuri seems to have formed around himself. “Take a breath,” Yuuri breathes, too quiet to truly be audible, “and let it go.” 

The stream of water, iridescent under the light of the moon, pops - but rather than melding smoothly back into the earth and the pond, it floats, small bubbles of a self-contained star system, bright and silver against the navy of the sky. 

“Yuuri, what -” Viktor looks at Yuuri, who has stepped away from him, and is staring at the orbs, face still slightly flushed from exertion. It’s a child’s trick - something the old masters teach to show budding benders widespread control, but there has always been an ethereal kind of beauty in simplicity. “Wow,” is all he says instead, staring up at the sky, and the orbs and at Yuuri, who is cast in the watery reflection of his own creation - a spectre of silver and moonlight, in the dark of the day just before dawn. 

_Like seeing them for the first time, Mama had said, you will know._

“I’ve been practicing,” Yuuri says, simply and honestly. His _haori_ is draped over the lone bench in the innermost garden, leaving him in a simple summer _yukata,_ patterned with pale pink cherry blossoms against a backdrop of cream. He looks like something otherworldly; an ancestral spirit or a spirit of nature, come to walk amongst the living, if only for an hour or two. 

Viktor looks; and it is like seeing his first sunrise - the awe and the beauty, contained in a moment so fleetingly common. _Like seeing them for the first time,_ Mama had said. 

The sun is rising, dragging itself over the horizon, dragging ribbons of rust and magenta with it, and as the dawn chases away the night, Viktor knows. 

It’s a frightening thing, love.

* * *

“I should head back inside,” Yuuri murmurs. The sun is rising in the sky, and soon, Hasetsu will be awake, servants coming to look for both him and Viktor. “They’ll be wondering where we’ve gone off to.” Viktor, eyes lidded and half-asleep mumbles sleepily and noses the grass in response. 

“Wake up. Viktor - _Viktor._ ” Shaking the other man’s shoulder, Yuuri raises an eyebrow as Viktor refuses to budge. “I will _soak_ you.” 

“I’d like to see you try,” Viktor mumbles, opening one eye to blearily glare at him. Yuuri shoves his shoulder in response. “I’m awake, I’m awake.” 

“Good. Come on.” Holding out a hand, Yuuri hauls Viktor up, and wanders off to pick up his _haori._ “It’s going to be busy today.” 

Viktor stretches, and the wince he makes when his back pops is audible. “Is it?” He asks, rubbing his neck. 

“Mhm.” Yuuri nods, shaking wrinkles from the silk. “The Solstice is in a week. Ambassadors and leaders are going to begin to arrive soon. My sister is expected to be returning with the Earth Kingdom’s delegation.” 

“Mariko?” 

“Just Mari.” Yuuri tries not to grimace at Mari’s full name - only Grandfather had ever really used their full names. “Take care not to call her Mariko to her face, if you _must_ call her that.” 

“I see,” Viktor remarks, and Yuuri is thankful that he does not push the matter further. How stupid, would it sound, to tell him - _well, you see, Mari and I dislike our full names because they carry terrible memories of our grandfather with them_ \- especially knowing that Viktor has - had been fighting since he was only 14? Yuuri shakes his head, and feels rather stupid for thinking so. 

Viktor smiles, coming up to match his stride as they begin to exit the garden. “Will I see you later, then?” He holds Yuuri’s eyes, and Yuuri can feel heat rising in his cheeks, unbidden. 

“If there is time,” Yuuri agrees, looking away. “We’ll see.” 

“Later, then,” he repeats, and it sounds like a promise. Viktor grasps his chin lightly, moving so that Yuuri is once more looking him in the eyes - and they are bluer than the sea on a clear day, bluer than the sapphire necklace that Father gave Mother last birthday - and smiles, simple and sweet. He is unbearably close, and Yuuri swallows heavily, heart in his throat, beating rabbit quick. “I’ll see you later.” 

“I - I - yes. Later,” Yuuri stammers, and his face is burningly warm. “I’ll - I’ll see you later.” And then he moves Viktor’s hands from his face and strides - runs - away, weaving between servants and palace staff. 

He places a hand on his chin, and for a moment, he swears that he can still feel Viktor’s fingers there, like a brand, burning and bright.

* * *

**JUNE 15TH, XX17. HASETSU PALACE, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

Viktor meets Heir Apparent, Katsuki Mari, and immediately, his first thought is of how _overwhelming_ the Heir Apparent’s presence is. She is the supernova to Yuuri’s neutron star, and fleetingly, he finds himself wishing for Yuuri’s company instead. 

“Ambassador Nikiforov,” the Heir Apparent greets, holding out a hand. Her handshake is firm - one could almost call it _crushing,_ but she lets go before Viktor can truly gage if the pressure is intentional or not. “I apologize for my absence beforehand, but I would like to extend my greetings. Welcome to Caldera.” She bows, short and sharp at the waist. Her gaze is piercing - bold and searching, where her brother’s is both quieter and icier. “I hope you’ve been treated well.” 

“Quite,” Viktor replies, smiling shallowly at her. “Your brother is a gracious host.” From across the room, Viktor tries to meet Yuuri’s eyes, but the Second Son is caught in a discussion with one of the Earth Kingdom’s delegation. He looks again, and the blond curls are instantly familiar. It’s Chris, and the man lingering beside him must be his fiance, Luca. 

“I’m sure he is,” Mari murmurs, and she looks towards her brother, something fiercely protective and pensive flashing across her face. “Well. It was a pleasure to speak with you, Ambassador. I’m certain we will be speaking more later.” 

“At a later date, of course,” Viktor concedes. “Perhaps during the Solstice. I must return home in the meantime.” 

_That_ catches Yuuri’s attention. The prince looks away from Chris and Luca, a brief, wide-eyed expression on his face. He schools it away quickly, but not before pinning Viktor with an inscrutable look. 

“I see.” She tilts her head, and uncomfortably, Viktor feels as if his mother is studying him once more, trying to figure out what mischief he’d gotten up to this time. “It was a pleasure, Ambassador.”  
“Likewise, highness.” And with as much propriety and grace as he can manage while bowing out, Viktor bobs his head in a facsimile of deference, and leaves the reception room. 

The sound of footsteps behind him tells him that Yuuri is following - and what a thrill it is, Viktor realizes, as he tears down the halls, Yuuri on his heels, to realize that he is underneath the man’s skin, that he can break his composure and tinge his cheeks with a red nearly the same as the color on his _haori._

They burst into the garden, and Viktor thinks, that if he turns his head just so, he can see the imprint of where they laid, side by side, watching the sun rise over the skyline of roofs and mountains. 

“You’re leaving,” Yuuri accuses. “You’re _leaving,_ and you - and you didn’t think I would want to _know?_ ” His face is red, and his chest is heaving, and his veil has been rucked up somewhere in the chase. 

“I cannot disobey my Tsar,” Viktor says, mild as milk, and watches as Yuuri pins him with a look more vicious and cold than any he has graced Viktor with before. “Yuuri -” 

“Were you _going_ to tell me?” Yuuri asks, and he runs his hands through his hair, knocking off the veil from its perch atop his head. “Or were you just - just going to slip away, and leave me to wonder what I’d done wrong?” The last word comes out choked, and distantly, Viktor realizes that Yuuri is close to crying. “Did I do something?” He asks again, voice pitifully small. “I thought - I thought that -” 

“You didn’t do anything,” Viktor says. “I just - I have to go. My time in Caldera is up, and the Tsar requires me back at Sankt Pyotr.” He reaches out, then pulls his hands back, and finds that he is terribly, horribly uncertain what to do. “I’m _sorry._ I don’t - I don’t know what to do. Don’t cry,” he begs. _Or I’ll cry_ , is left unsaid. 

Yuuri breathes through his nose, and his shoulders shudder in time with his breathes. “Don’t be sorry,” he bites out, and somehow, he sounds a little heartbroken and unbearably bitter at the same time. “I knew you were bound to leave sooner or later. Just,” he sighs, and he seems so much smaller now, “I wish you would have given me some warning. So I wouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.” 

“Yuuri, I’m coming back,” Viktor promises. “I’ll be back for the Solstice, and I’ll visit, and the Fire Lord and Nikolai permitting, you can come and visit in Sankt Peters and -” he breathes, slow and hard. “It’s not goodbye, is what I’m saying.” He moves closer, and pulls Yuuri to him. “We’ll see each other again.” He looks Yuuri in the eyes, as they are pressed together, forehead to forehead. “I promise.” 

They are inches away, and with a breath, Viktor presses his lips to Yuuri’s. He tastes sharp and sweet, like mint and blueberries, and his breath is warm against Viktor’s. As Yuuri laces his fingers through Viktor’s hair, he feels something slot into place, filling a space that he hadn’t known needed to be filled. 

Yuuri pulls away for air, and presses his forehead against Viktor’s once more. A laugh burbles out from Viktor’s chest, and Yuuri is laughing too. The afternoon sun is gentle from behind a cover of clouds, and the garden smells of fresh flowers and old rain, and as Viktor presses his forehead to Yuuri’s, it feels like coming home. 

“I’ll see you during the Solstice,” Yuuri says warmly, pressing a brief kiss to Viktor’s browbone. 

“I’ll see you then,” Viktor promises, and kisses him sweetly once more.

* * *

**JUNE 15TH, XX17. FUKUOKA BALLOON PORT, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

“So,” Mari drawls, later that night, after Viktor’s balloon pulls away from Fukuoka Balloon Port, “Nikiforov, huh?” 

“Stop,” Yuuri whines, pressing his face into his hands. His face is red and warm against his hands, and Mari is laughing, rough and unrepentant. 

“I’m glad,” she says, ruffling his hair. “This is the first time I’ve seen you without your veil in public for years, Yuuri. I’m _glad._ ” 

Yuuri nods, and thinks of his veil, still on the ground of the gardens, hidden amongst the daffodils. “So am I,” he murmurs, and finds, that deep down, it is true. It will not stay that way for long, he knows, but at least, now he has both Viktor and Mari behind him.

* * *

**JUNE 20TH, XX17. MATSU-NO-MA, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

Nikolai is in the throne room, and Yuuri is standing behind his sister, from where she lounges on the seat beneath her father’s palanquin. Viktor resists the urge to smile at Yuuri, who simply bobs his head in greeting, resplendent in a deep blue _haori_. The gold detailing on the moons and blossoms decorating the silk glitters subtly in the fire-lit room, and as Yuuri moves, the shifting light casts an otherworldly pattern on the wall to Viktor’s back. 

“My heir, Viktor,” Nikolai rasps, clapping a hand down onto Viktor’s shoulder. “I believe he will do an excellent job filling both my and his father’s shoes.” 

“I see.” Pushing past the gossamer curtains of the palanquin, the Fire Lord steps forwards, and his eyes are friendly, crows feet wrinkling around his eyes as he smiles. “It is good to see you again, Viktor.” 

“Likewise, Your Grace,” Viktor smiles, bowing. “I apologize for not notifying you earlier.” 

“Nonsense,” the Fire Lord laughs. “Nikolai notified me far before you arrived in Caldera. Besides, Mari did the same thing when she was younger. A throne is a heavy burden, Viktor.” Wisdom glitters in the old man’s eyes. “Sometimes, it’s best to wait until your heir is truly ready to accept it. It takes some longer than others. There is no shame in that.” 

“Thank you, Your Grace.” 

The Fire Lord shakes his head. “Nonsense. I’ve kept all three of you here long enough. Go, enjoy the festival. Nikolai and I have matters to discuss.” 

Mari stands. “Father,” she starts. 

“Go, Mari. If there is anything you need to know, be confident that I will tell you later.” He makes a shooing motion with his hands, and Mari shakes her head, but leaves. 

“Nikiforov,” she greets, and strides from the throne room. 

“Viktor,” Yuuri says, and it is much warmer than his sister’s greeting. “Welcome back.” He smiles, bright and without the veil, and takes Viktor’s hand in his own. 

“It’s good to be back,” Viktor confesses, and it is the truth. “I missed you.” 

Yuuri whisks them from the palace, onto the streets of Caldera, and amidst the throng of the celebration, says, “me too,” almost too softly to be heard over the crowd. 

“Shall we?” He asks, hand warm around Viktor’s. “We’ve got all of today for ourselves.” 

“I distinctly remember being promised a tour of Caldera,” Viktor drawls, a smile curling over his lips. “Care to follow through?” 

“But of course,” Yuuri replies, sly smile dancing across his face, and with a tug, drags Viktor into the crowd. “Try not to get lost!” He calls back, and yanks Viktor forwards with a laugh.

* * *

**JUNE 21ST, XX17. FUKIAGE GARDEN, CALDERA, FIRE NATION.**

“Mother,” Viktor greets, late at night, beneath the midnight moon. “You came.” 

Irena Mikhailova is long past her prime, where suitors would wax poetic about her moonshine hair, or the jade green of her eyes, but there is a severe beauty to be found in the lines on her fair face, and the elegant line of her brow. Her husband is dead, but her son has never seemed so alive as tonight. And though she can trace the faded white line of a scar on his jaw, or map the places where his fingers warp from breaking over and over again, the years have treated him far better than she. 

“Viten’ka.” She rises from her seat beneath the stars, old bones creaking in protest. “Don’t you have anything else to say to your mother?” Irena chides, gently whapping her son upside the head. He has both her height and his father’s, and she wonders if he was always this tall. 

Her son smiles, hesitant and warm, and hugs her tentatively. “Hello, мама,” Viktor offers, and his smile morphs into something more like the troublesome child he’d once been. “I’ve missed you.” 

Irena laughs, husky and low. “That’s more like it. Come, lets sit down. I’m afraid I’m not as young as I once was.” She takes her son by the hand, and pulls him down onto the bench, watching as he tilts his head up to watch the stars with a fondness she has not seen in his eyes before. “Tell me, have you found the right questions?” 

He nods, and clasps his hands together, hair silver beneath the stars. He is undoubtedly her son, carved from her flesh, with only the blue of his father’s eyes to truly mark him as Anatoly’s son. Irena cups her son’s face in her hands, thumbs the strong jaw that can only be his father’s and smiles, knocking her forehead against his own in a rare display of affection. 

“And tell me,” she asks, “how is your Second Son?” 

And she watches, as Viktor’s face _lights_ with a brilliance that can only be love, and he smiles at her, effusive and luminant, eyes twinkling like a pair of stars. “I love him, мама,” he says. “He’s - he’s like you. Brilliant and smart, and I just -” He smiles, and shrugs, at a loss for words. “He is to me, like отец was to you.” 

“Strong words,” Irena remarks. “But I believe you.” Viktor has never done anything by halves, and no sooner will he do as such to love. Irena Mikhailova may have abandoned her son for her nation that needs her no longer, but she has never stopped knowing her son - because he is carved from her flesh, from her bones and her soul, and she loves him as such. “He is good for you,” she decides, and grips his hands in her own. “Take care of him, Viten’ka.” 

“I will, мама,” Viktor promises. “Just as he’s taking care of me.” 

She will watch from afar, her son and this Second Son of his, and as they clasp hands, beneath the dawning of the Solstice sun, Irena thinks, once more, of her husband, and then thinks of peace. 

_Peace, Anatoly,_ she thinks. _Peace, found between the hands of your son and the Fire Lord’s son._

Irena tilts her head to the changing sky, and thinks that somewhere, amidst the stars and the spirits, her husband is smiling too. _Peace, Irena,_ she thinks he would say. _Peace to bring you home to me._

* * *

_here, is the deepest secret nobody knows - here is the root of the root, the bud of the bud, and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope, or the mind can hide._

And this is the simple truth of it all; 

Viktor Nikiforov is the only heir to the line Nikiforov, the blood of the Tsars of the Northern Water Tribe, son to Anatoly Nikiforov, and Irena Mikhailova. His father dies in battle, and in front of him, all he can see is death and restriction, in the prison they call the throne of the Tsar. He is twelve when he picks up his sword in service of his father, and fourteen when he picks up his sword in service of his uncle, content to avoid the throne, though it grows ever closer. 

Katsuki Yuuri is the only son of the Fire Lord’s only son, but he is far from the Heir. And he is the quiet light of the moon, to the supernova of his sister’s sun, but no less beloved, no sooner a monster for the water and chill that courses through his blood, his bones and his soul. He is suited for the pale moonlit shadows, for the rustle of silk and the quiet scratch of a quill against parchment. 

The war does not end when he is twenty, with the death of the man they call the Fire Lord - it rages, for months more, within the unrest in his bones, and the unease in his heart. It rages in every twitch of his fingers unable to be soothed by the passage of time - and the truth of it is, the war never ends within him. The fight is within him, quiet and unseen. 

It quiets with Yuuri, who takes his hands, and slowly, learns to trust them, to see past the blood of his people and the fear he has learned. The war does not end within Viktor, and the chill does not warm within Yuuri, but they hold themselves together, and carry each other within one another. 

And this is the simplest truth of all; 

Viktor places his hand in Yuuri’s, and Yuuri, his hand in Viktor’s, beneath the dawning Solstice sun, and Viktor presses a kiss, open and soft, to Yuuri’s mouth. Hand in hand, lips to lips, and skin to skin, they find truth in the simplicity of a single breath. The war will not end; the chill will not warm, but at least, in each other, there is quiet and there is peace. 

_Welcome home,_ the quiet seems to say. 

_I missed you,_ the peace seems to whisper. 

“I love you,” Viktor murmurs against Yuuri’s lips. 

Yuuri pulls away, and smiles, gripping Viktor’s hands in his own. He says, “I love you too,” and it rings true, like a vow beneath the rising sun. 

_and this is the wonder, that’s keeping the stars apart. i carry your heart - i carry it in my heart._

**end.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's something...sad about ending a piece! rest assured, viktor and yuuri have a ways to go in this 'verse - though whether or not i write anything more for them remains to be seen. perhaps. also, a prize to whomever can list all the symbolism + symbols i jam packed into _and this is the wonder_. seriously, there's so much. i went nuts with it. 
> 
> thank you all for seeing this through to the end! please comment, and leave me some kudos if you enjoyed this work. and, consider reading through some of my other works! 
> 
> find me on [tumblr.](abrcmhatford.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> aand scene! art link tba, but this is, one of two parts. i hope you enjoyed it - i definitely had a lot of fun writing this. 
> 
> _zvyozdochka_ means "little star" in russian.  
>  _kodomo no hi_ is children's day in japan! _koinobori_ are the koi shaped banners/balloons that represent families on that day. they're super cute,,
> 
> please comment, subscribe and leave kudos if you liked this fic! it would mean a lot to me.


End file.
